Out of Time
by Elaine27
Summary: In a time where homosexuality is a crime and money defines one's future, two people have found each other against all odds. Separated by status and as dissimilar in prestige and wealth as two people can be, they meet in secret. Unwilling to spend their lives mourning for what they can never have, both seek comfort in each others arm, knowing that the night will end eventually.
1. If only night would last forever

**A/N:** I've read a lot of Victorian and Historical Mystrade AUs lately, and my muse seems to have picked up on that. This started out as a Victorian AU but I soon realised that although the London I imagined while writing was correct, the clothing and social views as well as social graces didn't fit into that time. Here, people are more narrow-minded and wealth automatically means a high status and prestige. Furthermore, it is seen as the duty of the eldest son (especially in families of status) to marry and maintain the bloodline.

* * *

 **If only night would last forever**

Time is precious. It stops for no one, nor does it wait for the one who chases after it to catch up. It flies by, and before you realise it, it's gone, leaving nothing but the distant feeling of loss in its wake. Unsure of what it is you have lost, you venture on, believing you'll find it again soon enough. It is only when you reach the end that you realise your mistake, for not everything that is lost can be found. An opportunity once missed, or even dismissed, is all too often gone for good. And at the end, you look back silently and count the opportunities you've let go to waste in fear of what might follow, believing in third chances you knew would never come.

People, who have lived their life constantly fearing they might be discovered and have therefore pushed away their dreams, are more in danger of finding themselves looking back with sadness and regret; their time gone by without use. While trying so desperately to fit into society's expectations, they give up happiness and bow to a life which, albeit safe, is unfulfilled and more like a cage than anything else.

It is, therefore, a rare occurrence should two lonely souls be able to overcome their fears and find each other when they need it most. That it should happen not once, but twice—just another sign that it is meant to be. And no insult, no whisper on the street, no act of malicious intent, can ever change fate's unwavering persuasion.

As the sun rises, dipping the grey streets of London in a yellow glow, the thin rays of light finding the window of a rundown house near the Thames. It is small and old, the wood of the door and façade in desperate need of paint, and the window glass milky and opaque. Beyond, sprawled out on the simple bed, limbs curled up under the white sheets, lie two men. Their breaths are even, their minds not yet disturbed by the harsh reality of the world, but deeply immersed in a world where the light of a new day doesn't pose the end of a precious night.

They will wake, knowing every night could be their last; the danger of being discovered an ever looming shadow above them.

The light intensifies as the sun climbs the sky, higher and higher, until it is visible on the horizon, barely peeking over the rooftops of the city. Although the sun heralds the start of the day, it is still early and the streets lie in peaceful slumber, calm and quiet. Inside, the rays cast the room in a warm glow, and slowly, its two occupants awake.

There is that moment when one awakens where dream and reality mix to the point that distinction is impossible. One cannot tell what is real, nor do they feel the need. And so the shorter of the two, his hair more grey than brown and body lined with reminders of years of working with the police, tightens his grip on the other man, his face hidden in the hollow of his neck, as if ushering him back to sleep. And for a few, glorious seconds, everything is right in the world, and the shadow has yet to retake its ever looming position above them.

The moment, however, never does last long. For it is not in the power of dreams to stand up against the consistency of the day. One clings to it, only to have it slip through their fingers. And just like that, the two men startle awake, blue eyes meeting brown ones as the remains of their dreams vanish with the last traces of the night. Foreheads touching, they cling to each other, hands desperately clenching the sheets, as if they can stop time through their will alone.

But time doesn't stop, and the sky outside the tinged glass gains in intensity with every passing second.

Carefully, as if afraid the other might disappear any second, the dark haired, taller man raises his hand to gently trace his fingers down the side of his lover's face. The regret and sorrow in his eyes, edged deep into his soul over the many partings of the past, is a painful reminder of the forlornness of their situation.

"I have to go..." The words are whispered, and yet heavy with regret.

The other man smiles softly, a sad but reassuring smile to tell him he understands. "I know."

They have danced this dance so often that they know the steps without thinking. And when they part, neither of them ever dares to doubt their hands will soon meet again and their feet carry them away.

The taller man closes his eyes in defeat and before he can stop himself, he leans in to capture the other's lips.

The silver haired man sighs against his the kiss. "Mycroft..."

In a rush of desperate need and emotion, Mycroft encircles his waist and draws him closer, deepening the kiss. The need to hold him forever, to never let go, becomes almost overwhelming as gentle fingers find their way into Mycroft's hair. He'd give him everything, if only they'd let him. There is nothing he wouldn't do, nothing he wouldn't give to be able to love him freely. His house, his money, his reputation. They could have it all, if it means he could give away his heart.

They pull apart for air, and Mycroft clasps his lover's hands to lay them over his heart. "I love you, Gregory. So, so very much."

All Greg wants is to cup his face and tell him he knows, but Mycroft will have none of it. Instead, he kisses his hands with a gentleness that causes Greg's heart to ache.

"You must know," Mycroft continues, eyes meeting his once more, begging him to see. "That I'd do everything to be able to show you just how much you mean to me, how much I love you."

"Hey," Greg interrupts, gently lifting his chin as Mycroft tries to look away. "I know," he whispers, pressing his lips to Mycroft's again.

With one final touch of his lips to Mycroft's forehead, Greg pushes away, immediately missing the warmth as soon as Mycroft releases his hands. He watches as Mycroft stands and dresses with obvious reluctance. Layer after layer, once again he turns into the impeccably dressed man the world knows, fine silk and golden buttons leaving no doubt about his status and money. Nothing compared to the few shabby and worn clothes Greg has in his possession.

Although occupied with solid work as a police detective, Greg paid of the debt of his parents, the money that they'd needed to raise two children. What is left of his income that he didn't see as essential to survive, Greg sends to his sick and widowed sister. Four mouths, after all, needs more than one. And so he lives in a barely furnished and cold flat, a depressing place for him to crash after days without sleep, the grey walls only feeling like home in the few and rare hours he isn't alone.

As Mycroft brushes his curls of hair into place, Greg feels the familiar twinge of upset that Mycroft thinks it necessary to dye it. He's seen him with his natural ginger hair only once before, a long time ago when Mycroft was barely an adult himself. Although Greg had only a faded memory of that encounter, he knows it's nothing but beautiful, and not the flaw Mycroft seems to think it is.

His thoughts drifting back to that first fleeting meeting, Greg thinks of the Holmes Manor with its huge windows and velvet carpets. Warm and colourful and crying of old money, causing every visitor to immediately bow a little deeper. He vividly remembers the first and last time he'd felt the soft material beneath his feet, when he'd carried a limp, dark haired man over the threshold. Clad in expensive clothes and carrying more money than Greg had ever possessed, he'd gotten him off the street before someone decided to rob him of both and carried him home. The trouble he'd gotten for leaving his post had not been worth the dismissing hand wave the butler had directed at him as he had been shooed out the double doors, but Greg can't bring himself to regret having saved a soul.

Smooth hands brush over his face, effectively snapping him out of his thoughts. Mycroft, now fully dressed, is crouched in front of him, studying his face. Without a doubt, he knows exactly what his lover has been thinking.

"Everything," he repeats, his eyes open and unguarded. His eyes trace every line on his lover's face, the silver in his hair and the laugh wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, as he commits it all to memory. It could be days or weeks before they see each other again. Even longer if he has to leave London. And his fear that Greg might get injured, that he might return to a city without him, is unbearable.

"Go," Greg urges, the tightening of his hand in Mycroft's betraying his words. "Or they'll see you leaving."

Hearing the shame in his own words, shame that Mycroft could be caught with someone like him, Greg quickly tries to cover it, but Mycroft leans in for a brief, tender kiss.

That Gregory would be ashamed of himself tears at Mycroft, but it is true that he'd already stayed longer than was safe. For a second, Mycroft wonders what would happen if he stayed. If the Holmes household awakened without finding him in his rooms, or in his study at the Diogenes. He wonders how long it would take them to find him and what they'd do if they did. Sharing a bed with a man, kissing him, loving him.

Wrong, repulsive, perverted, illegal.

But it wouldn't be him whose life would be torn apart.

"Everything..." Mycroft whispers once more, eyes closed, before pulling away and heading for the door. He doesn't look back, afraid he won't be able to leave if he does.

Slipping through the back door and out onto the street, Mycroft's eyes are hard and cold. His mask of ice once again in place, Mr. Holmes stares out the cab window as it brings him back to the manor. No one has or will ever see the true emotion that lies beneath the so carefully crafted indifference, or the longing that tears his heart apart. Nor will anyone ever find love in the deep blue of his eyes. No one but one man. And he will never know that he is the only one.

* * *

I really enjoyed writing this and am already working on extending it into a series :D


	2. Inner Conflict

**A/N:** As promised, I turned it into a series (in this case a multichapter story). All the following insights into Greg and Mycroft's lives together and apart will be uploaded in chronological order and because the time span in between will differ, I'll always define what time/month it is and how much time has past.

Also, you'll find that Violet Holmes is a very caring and understanding mother in this story, simply because I really love how they portrayed her in the series and couldn't bare to turn her into some cold-hearted woman. The same goes for Siger Holmes.

* * *

 **Inner Conflict**

 _(3 months later)_

 _January_

The ball was, just like any ball before that, utterly boring. And as always, he spent his time being introduced to woman after woman, all looking him up and down like meat to be soon served. Normally, Mycroft would seek refugee within the circle of intellectuals and friends of his father, and hope the prospect of scientific or political talk would have them keep their distance. But the news that his uncle would soon hand over his duties to his nephew seemed to have made its round among the upper class, and both daughters and fathers were hoping to get a foot in the door. Therefore, Mycroft, who'd never defy the manners he'd been taught, had been forced to dance with different women all evening. Their company reached from dreary to horrid, and when the clock stroke ten, marking barely the end of the first half of this excruciating event, Mycroft found himself even longing to join his brother. Who, he guessed, was probably crawling under the long tables to examine the odour of the guest's shoes and deduce their secrets by the hem of their clothes.

It wasn't so much the dancing itself that tore at him, but the motivation of his company. Small touches here and there, the fluttering of eyelashes whenever their eyes met, and ridiculous chatter meant to impress as well as determine how well off he really was.

Lost in his thoughts, Mycroft hadn't realised he'd stared into the face of the woman he was currently waltzing around the grand ball room. She, obviously, had and immediately took it as a sign of encouragement. Sensing triumph, she flashed him a wide smile that revealed a line of perfect white teeth and boldly leaned in closer. Before Mycroft could react, he felt her warm breath on his neck, and couldn't suppress the panic that washed over him with no warning.

Mycroft couldn't think. His heart racing and his body were frozen except for his feet, which still dutifully lead them over the dance floor, his clothes felt too tight, and every breath increased in difficulty. Her closeness, the intimacy she forced on him by trying to erase the space between them, reminded him of whom alone he wished to dance with, while keenly aware that it would never be possible. And as the hand on his shoulder tightened, Mycroft was sure he'd be sick. The urge to run became unbearable, but he forced himself to remain calm. For someone of his status, manners demanded that he finished this dance, so he fought back the pressing urge to simply turn and leave.

As soon as the last notes of music faded away, he stopped and stepped away, only to be held back by her hand which she had curled around his left arm. She dipped her head, her blonde curls bobbing with the movement, and smiled sweetly. Mycroft, trying his hardest to keep up the act despite the shortness in his breath, gave her a fake smile in return and moved to discretely peel her hand from his arm. But she only clung tighter, as if her grip alone could somehow persuade him to proclaim his undying love for her.

"I have enjoyed your company greatly, Miss Roberts," Mycroft said with feigned calm, quite relieved to find that her name hadn't slipped his mind. "But I'm afraid there are pressing matters at hand that require my immediate attention."

She didn't believe him in the slightest, but the request for distance was one she could hardly decline, as the daughter of the very influential Lord Roberts, member of the High Court. However, Miss Roberts seemed to deem it her right to demand his attention, and thereby forgo propriety. She was, after all, determined to continue her luxurious lifestyle. A bit desperate, too, probably. Two older brothers and an older sister tended to cut down one's share of the family inheritance considerably.

Focused on a point behind his right shoulder, she reached for his other hand, but Mycroft pulled away and turned around. The gleam in her eyes had told him already whose attention had delighted her, and his suspicion was confirmed as he met the eyes of his mother watching them from her place on the main table. Eyes full of hope and joy.

Repelled by himself for having put her through such misery and soon breaking her hopes again, Mycroft roughly yanked his arm free and fled, a hurried apology falling from his lips as he blindly pushed his way through the crowd.

After hurrying through the familiar halls, he found himself coming to a halt before the wide, oaken double doors to the library. With a sigh of relief, Mycroft ducked through the entrance and swiftly closed it behind him. He let his gaze sweep the room to make certain that none of the guests had lost their way to end up here. Once satisfied, he stepped between the book shelves. Immediately, his senses were flooded with the smell of old paper, leather, and the faint scent of pine wood. It smelled like home, calm and soothing, and Mycroft felt his muscles relax.

His hands glided over spine after spine, caressing it as if it might turn to dust beneath his finger, until he reached the wide round space reserved for reading. Although small in comparison to the library itself, its size was remarkable. To Mycroft it had always been the centre of the Holmes manor, for it resembled the still eye of a storm. Here, either sitting on one of the round tables or in one of the comfortable armchairs, he'd found understanding and comfort. Whenever he'd lounged in the armchair beneath the window in the ceiling, book open on his lap and surrounded by nothing but paper and wood, Mycroft had felt safe. No title to his name, no obligations, no prying eyes. Nothing but silence.

He remained frozen in the middle of the round space, eyes fixed absently on the place where he'd spend a few of the best moment of his childhood. The image of Sherlock sitting on his lap, first begging him to read to him and, many years later, teach him whatever language he was reading in, was as clear in his mind as if it had happened yesterday. Absorbed in his memories, Mycroft almost didn't hear another person step up behind him.

"As the eldest son of the Holmes family, you are heir and therefore it is your obligation to secure its continuation. You have to marry, Mycroft," Violet Holmes said with a shimmer of regret in her eyes. "It is expected of you." She knew of her son's reluctance to commit himself to a woman, afraid that it would pose nothing but a distraction. At least that was the conclusion she'd drawn after many years of seeing him turn down every possible opportunity and throwing himself face first into his responsibilities as soon-to-be ruler of England.

Mycroft hung his head in defeat, his voice frighteningly small as he whispered, "I know."

"Mycroft," Mrs. Holmes laid a soothing hand on her eldest's shoulder, eyes full of concern. "I know it's not ideal, but I'm sure there's one noble woman in the Commonwealth who'd be able to hold your interest."

There already is someone, Mycroft thought bitterly, and no woman could ever compare.

"Is there?" Violet's heart clenched at the tiredness in his voice. "Tonight I've only seen women so filled with greed, their eyes shining at the prospect of money and influence," Mycroft continued, something akin to bitterness lacing his words. "Marrying the Holmes heir, known to be one of the most wealthy men in the Commonwealth!" He chuckled darkly. "Oh, if they knew of the power I'll soon hold! They'd rip each other apart as they fight over who gets to lay a hand on me first. After all, what better way to secure their extravagant and luxurious lifestyle and achieve the look of permanent jealousy on their rival's faces."

"Mycroft..." But he brushed his mother's hand from his shoulder and stepped away, back still turned to her.

"And in exchange for all that, all they have to do is smile with fake joy in their eyes, and lay with me at night. What little price to pay, what little pain to endure in comparison to their gain."

Never before had he regretted being born eldest as in this very moment. All public eyes turned on him, no one cared much about his brother's dealings, a privilege Mycroft envied more than he'd ever admit. His brother, tall and handsome, dark hair and slim form drawing admiring looks from all sides. What he would give to have inherited their grandfather's looks. But there was no use wasting time pondering what-ifs. Sherlock wasn't heir, nor would he ever be able to carry the responsibilities Mycroft had been trained to shoulder since his childhood for that matter. England would fall.

Violet knew better than to object. Mycroft would simply put down her encouragement to her feeling of duty and obligation as his mother to reassure him in his appearance and attractiveness as potential lifelong companion. Not for the first time, Violet Holmes realised just how much her son had not just grown up, but changed with the burden which had been laid upon him without his will. She missed the carefree boy who'd hidden in the library, ginger hair peeking out between bookshelves and making it impossible to hide anywhere in the manor. With an insatiable thirst for knowledge and a kindness and politeness his brother had never possessed.

Unable to act, Violet had had no other choice but to watch while Mycroft had built up his walls of ice, piece by piece. He'd hidden his own vulnerable thoughts and feelings, and had carefully crafted the image of a cold man nobody wanted to befriend, but whom England so desperately needed, in its wake. Until no one remembered the boy, and only saw the ice man.

Despite her disapproval, she couldn't blame him. His mind was chaotic and fast, something Violet understood all too well. And yet she knew he cared; for his brother, for his family and for his nation. Happiness in intelligent people, she'd found, was the rarest thing there was. She'd been lucky to be born as daughter to the late Holmes' close friend, and to marry his son out of love. It had been frowned upon that Siger Holmes had taken a banker's daughter as his wife, yes, but the gossip had died down soon enough. And she'd made quite a statement as she'd started managing the Holmes finances. No one had ever doubted the part she'd played in giving birth to two highly intelligent sons after she'd demonstrated her talent with numbers.

All she wanted for her children was to experience just the same luck and find their happiness. Now, if they'd only accept themselves.

"Mother."

"Yes, my dear?"

"What if I..." He hesitated and took a shaky breath to calm himself. His thoughts were in chaos. If he couldn't think straight, he might say things he'd greatly regret later.

"What if I could find someone who doesn't care about the name Holmes?" he finally asked. His hands absently wandered over the smooth surface of the oaken table and traced the artfully stitched hemline of the golden tablecloth. "What if the richness of those halls, the power in my words and the honour to my name were of no importance to them?"

Violet Holmes studied her son for a long moment, unsure how to read his words. Her eyes took in the slight bend in his shoulders, the still hand that had come to rest over the red Holmes emblem - a stark contrast to the golden background - and the shadows under his eyes. His face was turned away, but she knew without seeing them that they were full of sorrow.

Mycroft rarely showed what was truly going on in that brilliant head of his. He was reserved, always had always been. Even as a child, Mycroft had acted more like an adult, excepting responsibility and duties with a quiet determination–a development both Violet and her husband had observed silently, all too painfully aware of the necessity. That he was unable to hide his emotions now didn't bode well, and if Violet were a different woman, she would have been frightened.

"You'd recognise yourself a lucky man," Violet answered thoughtfully. "And if your feelings were of the same nature, you'd offer them a place by your side and proudly stand up to them."

"And what if that would prove impossible?"

Violet furrowed her brow, confused. "You mean if you wouldn't be able to reciprocate their feelings?"

Mycroft shook his head. "No. No, I feel very much the same. It would, however, be of serious consequence should I decide to make our relationship public."

He'd switched tenses without really realising it, and Violet could now see the reason for the inner conflict she'd observed on her son's face whenever he'd thought himself alone. Mycroft himself, however, to absorbed in his speech, didn't seem to have noticed his lapse.

"If anyone should ever find our..." With a defeated sigh, Mycroft sank down in one of the chairs and took his head between his hands. "...I'd never forgive myself."

It felt strangely relieving to speak aloud what had troubled him for such a long time now, without being met by immediate resentment. Not daring to look up, Mycroft sat and waited, enjoying the small relief of having his secret -or at least part of it- in the open as long as he could. Even if his mother was the only one who knew, a burden shared did indeed weigh half as much.

Violet watched her son with sadness in her eyes. He looked worn and tired, like he'd battled the world and the world had won. Without hesitation she sat down beside him and started stroking his hair, wanting nothing more than to reassure him of her unwavering support. It didn't surprise her when Mycroft couldn't hold back an anguished sob.

They sat like that for what felt like ages, with Violet stroking his hair soothingly and watching the stars through the window in the ceiling.

"When did you know?" Mycroft finally asked, his voice hoarse. "That you loved father enough that marrying him would be worth the malicious gossip and defamation?"

"Loving someone and deeming marrying them worth the risk of social disgrace are two very different things, Mycroft." Violet answered truthfully, hand still moving slowly over his head. "Yes, I love your father and yes, I was willing to risk falling from grace when I agreed to become his wife. But that doesn't necessarily take a certain degree of affection. Sometimes, it is an unimaginable amount of devotion that is needed to love them despite ever being able to take that risk, despite ever being able to enjoy their company without fear. No matter how much one may wish to."

Head still in his hands, Mycroft seemed to think about that and then nodded, as if he knew exactly what she meant. It was that small gesture that told Violet just how grave the situation was; that he really, actually _felt_ and _hurt._ And there was absolutely nothing Violet could do about it.

"Go to bed, Mycroft. I'll go back to the ball and inform the guests of your absence concerning the rest of the evening." She gave his arm one final reassuring squeeze and left the library, hoping tomorrow would bear better news.

* * *

Next part will feature a nice bit of Mystrade fluff ;D


	3. A Dance Worth Remembering

**A Dance Worth Remembering**

 _(one week later)_

 _January_

"May I have this dance?"

Greg looked up from where his head was resting on Mycroft's lap. He blinked, confused, not sure he'd just imagined the other man's voice in his drowsy state.

Mycroft had stopped carding his fingers through Greg's silver hair, hands still and eyes fixed on the fireplace. Outside, darkness had long descended over the city, and the room was lit only by the dim fire light. The flames danced on his pale face, and Greg watched, mesmerised, how they illuminated and darkened his eyes with the unsteady rhythm of their movement. When Mycroft neither spoke nor caught his gaze, Greg shifted his legs to sit beside him on the bed, back supported by the wall. The new position enabled him to sneak his feet beneath the blanket. The fabric was rough, made of heavy wool and slightly frayed from constant use.

Although he missed the soothing hand in his hair, the warm and steady body against his side wasn't so bad either. With a content sigh, Greg linked their feet under the cover and rested his head on the taller man's shoulder.

"I can't dance, Mycroft. Not what you're used to, at least."

There was a short pause, before Greg felt Mycroft turn his head.

"Gregory..." he said, voice warm and laced with amusement, causing Greg to look up and meet his gaze. "The purpose of ballroom dancing is socialising. Dance well and you'll be respected; dance with grace and you'll be feared. Furthermore, a dance can prove as a convenient opportunity to forgo eavesdroppers." He paused, then smiled. "I wasn't asking for a ballroom dance."

"So I'm special then?" Greg teased, already pulling back the blanket and hopping off the bed.

Mycroft followed, smile widening as he watched Gregory spin twice in front of the fireplace. "Yes, very special."

"And what is it that makes my company special compared to those of the people who grace your arm while _socialising_?"

It was meant to be teasing and light. Thus the depth in Mycroft's eyes as he reached for Greg's hand surprised him. He easily closed the space between them with one step of his long legs, sneaked one arm around his middle and gently pulled Greg close to his chest.

"You," Mycroft answered, voice warm and soft beside Greg's ear. "I _want_ to dance with you. It is neither my duty, nor is it pressed upon me without my will. Dancing with you is an honour and a gift."

Striving for a response and failing, chest warm with affection, Greg simply let himself be swayed back and forth. Guided by Mycroft's sure hand, his feet soon remembered lessons long past and they started to slow waltz, their steps limited by the small space between the bed and the fireplace.

When they'd fallen into a comfortable rhythm, Mycroft started humming softly, surprising not only Gregory but also himself. He hadn't allowed himself the simple pleasure of singing in a very long time. Yet, the melody came easily, like it had been waiting for the right moment to quietly but steadily escape.

Of course, there was no real music to accompany their steps. Nor was their attire in any way fitting the purpose. In fact, Greg felt quite out of place with his sock-clad feet, loose trousers that were just a tick too short, and faded white shirt. But all that vanished when he finally stopped staring at his feet and met Mycroft's eyes. They were warm and so filled with love and affection, Greg found himself unable to look away. Here, moving without music, the fire soaking them with warmth, Mycroft holding him and looking at him like he was the centre of his world, a simple dance turned into something much more. Something incredibly precious and breathtakingly intimate.

Was it selfish, Greg thought to himself, to wish Mycroft would never dance with anyone else again?

The question must have been reflected on his face, because Mycroft's hand on his back tightened briefly, pulling him even closer. Without breaking their dance, he touched his forehead to Greg's and drew in a sudden, shaky breath. A few comfortable, silent seconds passed before Mycroft swallowed thickly and spoke.

"If I could, I wouldn't," he promised quietly. "But since I have little say in that matter and am therefore condemned to attend many dances to come, I shall always be reminded of this moment. My longing for your presence shall forever be my comfort in those dark hours, and wish me back to your side as soon as possible."

In lieu of a reply, Greg captured Mycroft's lips in a deep, loving kiss, trying his best to convey what words couldn't express. Successfully, it seemed, since Mycroft responded with equal enthusiasm, until both had to break apart for breath. Their lips lingered just for a moment longer, as they both enjoyed the comfort of the other's warm touch.

"Will you think of me then?" Greg whispered, his lips moving to kiss Mycroft's cheek. The laugh wrinkles of his right eye. Up to his elegant brow. "Whenever you demonstrate your dancing talent."

"There shall be nothing else on my mind, but the touch of your lips and the warmth of your body."

"Good." Pressing one final kiss to Mycroft's forehead, Greg let himself be pulled into an embrace. His arms encircled the other's neck on their own accord, as he buried his face in the crock of Mycroft's slender neck. "Wherever your obligations may lead you, it is my honour to lighten your mood and grace your side with my comforting presence, if not in flesh then at least in mind."

In a mix of relief and gratefulness, Mycroft breathed a muffled 'thank you' into Gregory's shoulder and squeezed his waist. Having stopped waltzing somewhere throughout their conversation, they were now both swaying gently back and forth again, bodies touching from head to toe. The movement caused them to drift away in the safety of the moment, dozing at the verge of sleep.

Their dance wasn't just a dance, but a silent expression of gratitude. An unspoken promise to always be there, wherever 'there' might be. Apart or together, through touch or through voice. And an unvoiced demonstration of their mutual love for each other.

Let the morning come, for they were ready to fight the day.


	4. From this Day forward

**A/N:** This chapter will be the first part of three connected chapters. Part two will be about Mycroft's time in Edinburgh and part three will feature Greg again (and a heavy dose of angst and fluff).

Lots of thanks to my awesome beta _ivefoundmygoldfish_ who cleaned up this mess and leaves the most encouraging comments!

Also thank you to _Thilbo4Ever_ for the encouraging words :D

* * *

 **From this Day forward  
** Part 1: Receiving

The sun had set hours ago, but Mycroft still sat hunched over the desk in his study, pen flying over the paper, filling it with his neat handwriting. Just behind the double doors at the end of the hallway outside his study, his rooms tempted him, but he didn't dare retire for bed just yet. He would be greeted by his already packed luggage, ready to accompany him to Edinburgh tomorrow morning – a prominent reminder that his business trip would keep him from London for an indefinite time. It took all his willpower not to seek out a certain flat tonight, knowing he wouldn't be able to return in the morning or during the night without getting spotted by servants and guards preparing the mansion for the imminent departure of his father and himself. The call to Scotland had come on short notice – just this morning – and had immediately received high priority. Thus the entire Holmes household had been in a bit of a rush to reorganise their schedules for the time of absence of the two heads of the house.

Mycroft especially had been surprised. The sudden turn of events had only given him enough time to send a short encrypted note to Gregory telling him not to expect a visit in the near future. It had been short and too formal for Mycroft's taste, but safety came before his heart's desires. Gregory hadn't replied, firstly because a day was little time to form a proper response, and secondly, because having Mycroft receive said reply without drawing attention demanded long and cautious preparation. The silence lay heavy on his heart, though. Thus Mycroft worked and completed tasks that weren't due any time soon, but that distracted his mind from other, darker thoughts.

His attempt at distraction seemed to have worked, if not scarcely, as he only became aware of another presence in the room when the door shut with a soft click. The familiar perfume preceded its owner, and Mycroft knew whom it belonged to without turning. After all, the chances his mother would let him go without bringing up their conversation in the library four weeks ago had been very slim from the start.

"I thought a lot about what you told me at the library," Violet spoke up softly from behind him. She had yet to cross the distance to his desk, therefore purposefully giving her son a bit of room to gather his thoughts.

Mycroft sighed, silently preparing himself for the fierce lecture or pitiful speech to come. He wasn't sure what would be worse; her telling him to refrain from whatever he was engaging in or offering empty words of encouragement. His mother was no doubt a very gentle and caring mother, and a good woman, but Mycroft wouldn't hold it against her if she decided to do the former. His moment of weakness had proved most unfortunate and now he greatly regretted having lost his control back at the ball. The burden he carried wasn't his to share, least of all with his mother. She already worried enough about her two sons' well-being without having to shoulder the knowledge of Mycroft's unfortunate love-life.

Caught up in pondering her motives, Mycroft failed to notice her step up to his desk, and looked up in confusion when she held out her hand before his face. Nestled in her palm was a delicate ring that sparkled in the dim candlelight. It was made out of three entwined threads of gold with one round sapphire and two emeralds nestled between. Why she held it out to him, however, was beyond him.

He looked up at her, bewildered. "What are you doing?"

"It's my engagement ring," Violet answered nonchalantly. She twirled it between her fingers twice before placing it on top of Mycroft's desk, successfully preventing him from ignoring her in favour of continuing his work.

"I know," Mycroft said, still confused. His eyes were fixed on the ring on his desk, as if looking at it long enough would cause it to spill its secrets. Or disappear. "But why?"

"Your father offered it to me in exchange many years ago."

"In exchange for what?"

"Well, my heart of course," Violet said cheerfully, taking note of and purposefully ignoring Mycroft's growing puzzlement. "Take it, I have no use for it now. I prefer knowing it in your hands than doomed to gather dust in my drawer, nestled between forgotten jewellery."

"But..." Mycroft hesitated, uncertain what the gesture meant. "Surely, it is of sentimental value to you."

Violet smiled knowingly. "Of course it is. That's why I'm handing it over to you, Mycroft."

She picked the ring up once more, inspected it with a wistful smile and passed it on to her son. Mycroft took it hesitantly, hands moving with the greatest care, fearful that he might drop or break it. Unsure how to proceed, he held it on his outstretched hand and simply admired the elegant delicacy and skilled handicraft. The ring was doubtlessly worth a fortune and unique in its appearance, but not too conspicuous and opulent to draw too much attention. Instead it showed taste and a fondness for simple beauty. The perfect ring for his mother and thereby a thoughtful gift from his father. No doubt Siger Holmes had spent many sleepless nights in search for this perfect token of love and affection.

Pondering the purpose of it, Mycroft realised with growing discomfort what it implied.

"Mother, I..." His tongue felt too heavy in his mouth. "Thank you for this generous gift, I appreciate it greatly and am honoured that you trust me with its keeping. But I cannot accept it."

Violet's smile didn't falter. "Why not?"

Mycroft swallowed. "Considering our recent conversation, I am afraid your motivation for handing me your engagement ring is sadly misplaced. I believe your faith might be better placed in Sherlock and he should therefore be the one to receive this gift."

"I do not believe that to be true." Confident in her decision, Violet ventured on. "The last four weeks have given me enough time to contemplate my offer."

"Then you are mistaken," Mycroft objected resolutely. He was sure she'd drawn the wrong conclusion and would be bitterly disappointed to find him unable to fulfil her request. "I do not intend to use this ring for its original purpose in the near future, no matter what your wishes may be."

Surprised, Violet raised an elegant eyebrow and studied her son's face. She must have found something in his carefully crafted mask of indifference, for she sighed softly and pulled over a chair to sit. Her long legs crossed beneath her elegant blue dress, Violet placed her right elbow on the desk and rested her chin in her hand. Her blue eyes were piercing and reminded Mycroft of his mother's intelligence. "And what do you think my wishes to be?"

"A married son, a trustworthy daughter-in-law and an heir to the family," Mycroft answered instantly. His voice had taken on a bitter tone and he looked away, ashamed of his slip of control four weeks ago as well as now, and ashamed of his inability to follow his parents' wishes. "I can assure you I cannot and will not give you any of these things."

"And yet, I'll give it to you. Not Sherlock, not anyone else, but you."

"I don't understand."

"That's because you don't listen," she chided him fondly. It made Mycroft feel like a child again, barely five years old, when there were still things that exceeded the capacity of his mind. The experience was both thrilling and frightening, and Mycroft was torn between the urge to understand or run away as fast as possible.

The latter became improbable when his mother covered his hands, glowing pale in the dim light, with her own and urged him to meet her gaze.

When he focused on a point to the right of her face instead, she sighed a soft "Mycroft" and waited patiently until her son had built up his courage. As their eyes finally met, the worry and uncertainty in his were clearly visible, and Violet decided she'd seen that look far too often these past weeks. It was high time to change that.

"Mycroft," Violet began, softly squeezing his hands that were still holding the ring. "I do not know the complete magnitude of your current dilemma, nor will I pretend to understand the complexity of your emotions. But know that the degree to which you have pledged your heart to an impossible cause is not mine to estimate or condemn and I will under no circumstances think less of you for it."

Mycroft didn't respond. Hope and weariness were battling for control on his face. Having her approval turned out to be more of a need than he'd anticipated and the rush of relief coursed through his veins. Painfully sudden in its appearance, but sweet and more than welcome in its flow. Savouring the feeling, Mycroft closed his eyes and let his shoulders relax. The prospect of his imminent departure weighed a lot less now.

"This ring is not meant to pressure you," Violet continued, "for I have no desire to see you unhappy in a relationship which you considered purely to please me. Instead, see it as a reassurance. A sign of my love and trust and my belief in you. Whatever your use for this ring, I'm convinced it'll be wisely considered."

"So you do not necessarily expect me to keep it, even though the recipient might stay unknown to you?"

"Yes, it's yours now and thereby yours to give. I only ask that you do not return it, but give it after your heart's desires."

She smiled and Mycroft couldn't help but smile back, albeit tentatively. After giving his hand a last squeeze, Violet pulled back and stood up. Mycroft nodded absently and carefully slipped the ring into his breast pocket before rearranging the papers on his desk.

Observant as ever, is mother, of course, saw. "Do try to catch some sleep, Mycroft. A long journey awaits you tomorrow, and I know for a fact that those documents can wait until you get back."

With that, she left, leaving behind the subtle traces of her perfume and the light pressure of solid metal against his chest. It was barely there, but enough to have him lay aside his pen and stack the papers in a neat pile. The candles were blown out soon after and when Mycroft finally closed his eyes, feeling the soft sheets against his skin, his sleep was dreamless.

* * *

Still not sure about the time this is set in. It's sort of a mix between the Regency and Victorian era, so maybe somewhere between 1820 - 1840? Please correct me if I'm wrong, I have very little knowledge of English history.


	5. Long Way Down

**A/N:** Huge THANKS to all those lovely people who took the time to leave a review, you keep me going!

* * *

 **Long Way Down**

The journey was long and exhausting, the roads muddy and less than pleasant to travel on after they changed from train to carriage. February was nearing its end and the grey winter was withdrawing, slowly but gradually replaced by the sluggish pale green of early spring. White fields of snow melted bit by bit, leaving the ground sated with water. By the time they neared Scottish land, there wasn't a single white spot left.

His father, worried for his brother's health and tired himself, had mainly left him to his thoughts. Dark and ominous as they were, Mycroft wasn't sure that was a good thing, but relieved nonetheless. Only a few hours left until they arrived, after four long days of constant travelling.

Mycroft absently clutched the expensive stationery in his hands, gaze focused beyond the carriage. The paper was crumpled and worn from constant abuse, and his fingers had left slightly greasy spots on the elegant curve of his name written across the front of the envelope.

Inside, on the equally expensive paper, the words still hadn't changed. He'd memorised them long ago, but the firm papery feeling helped ground him in a way thoughts could not. No matter how often Mycroft read them again, their meaning remained the same, as did their consequences.

Plain and simple. Not more than a handful of lines that held little meaning to an outside viewer. Clearly a precaution, should it fall into unwanted hands.

 _Sir Mycroft Holmes,  
_ _You are hereby summoned to Greenwoods Castle to assist as temporary substitute for your uncle, Sir Edward Holmes. Due to unforeseen circumstances, he is unable to continue a negotiation of great delicacy. Since you are named as his successor, you are to leave at once to fill his place._

 _Sincerely_

The absence of a signature was no surprise. It wasn't needed, since the number of people who knew of his family's doings was quite small. Mycroft estimated the time it took to send a telegram from Greenwoods Castle to Buckingham Palace and have the letter delivered to his address, and assumed his uncle's condition had arisen not sooner than six days ago. Seven, if they'd waited a day for improvement.

"Did it provide further insight concerning what is to happen after our return?" his father had asked once, while they sat face to face in the train compartment, in the morning of their second day of travelling.

With a lot of effort, Mycroft had torn his gaze away to face his father. Siger Holmes had not met his eye, but unlike his two sons, he wore his heart on his sleeve. Although more 'normal' in matters of intelligence, he was by far not ignorant. His heart, Mycroft had noted—not for the first time—was just as soft as that of his mother.

"No," Mycroft had replied, plain and simple. However, the sagging of his father's shoulders had induced him to elaborate further. "I am sure that should uncle Edward's condition be critical, the message would have mentioned as such."

"That's not what I meant."

He knew then, Mycroft had thought wearily. Had he truly advertised his reluctance so freely? Or had his mother confined in her husband concerning their son's matters of the heart? Hopefully not. He wasn't ready for that discussion yet, not that he ever expected to be.

"Listen," his father had said, as Mycroft had failed to reply. "I know this is difficult for you, and that you didn't expect to be called in so soon. But however this turns out, I have no doubt you'll meet and exceed all that is demanded of you in the future."

And that had been that. If anything, Mycroft hadn't felt and still didn't feel any better. A bit reassured perhaps, yes, but the finality of what would inevitably happen weighed at his heart. Sooner or later, the day of saying goodbye would arrive, despite Mycroft's wishes. And as it stood, sooner was far more likely.

~oOo~

They had barely passed the gates when two servants emerged. One promised to show Siger to his brother's chambers once he'd moved into his rooms and took his luggage. When Mycroft was about to follow, the second servant stopped him, saying he was needed immediately. With a resigned sigh, Mycroft abandoned his luggage and obeyed.

What followed was a long, dreadful evening filled with nothing but the most boring and delicate discussions. Apparently, the six day break the delegates had been forced to take hadn't mixed up their time schedules at all, therefore no one was in a great hurry to reach an agreement. When Mycroft finally left his place on the long table that first night, nothing had been accomplished, and he realised with dread that his return wouldn't be possible after just a week. A month would be more likely, depending on whether or not further travelling would be necessary.

Over the next days, Mycroft spent his time in and out of negotiations. To his amazement, people of power were just as easily manipulated as common men, and as the hours passed, more disagreements were settled in his favour than not.

After so many years of training for exactly this moment, the demands of his job came easy to Mycroft. Without thinking, he became the cold, inscrutable man who'd accompanied him every step of his adolescence. A carefully and flawlessly crafted mask, yes, but a mask nonetheless.

Although he didn't see his uncle for the first week, his uncle's personal assistant Sir Nicolas Ledford introduced him to the political situation at hand and kept him informed during the heated discussions, always lingering in the shadows behind him. Through him, Mycroft was able to maintain contact with the Buckingham Palace and inform his mother of the extension of their stay until his uncle was fit for travelling again.

And so time passed by, agonisingly slow at times and frighteningly fast at others.

Well into the third week, Mycroft found himself sitting at dinner with Sir Ledford, his father and, surprisingly, also his uncle. Edward Holmes had taken to having his food brought to his bedroom so far, and Mycroft had not expected him to join them tonight. He still looked quite pale, a bit older than when he'd last visited Mycroft's family's estate, but healthier than most people looked after a heart attack. Both in physical and mental form.

"It seems that my health will fully recover," Edward informed Mycroft of what Siger had already told him. However, the next words came as a surprise. Or perhaps not. "But it has become apparent that my health will continue to suffer should I shoulder my current responsibilities any longer."

Mycroft could only nod mutely, having figured as much as the days of his uncle's isolation had trickled by. However, up to this point he'd still hoped against all reason that he was wrong and his uncle would not yet lay down his duties, giving Mycroft a few years before the inevitable would happen. What foolish hope. He'd deceived himself. His appetite gone, Mycroft stared at the spoon in his hand, hovering halfway to his mouth, and lowered it again.

"Nicolas told me that you've managed very well on your own, Mycroft," his uncle continued, oblivious to Mycroft's reaction. "It pleases me to know that my leave will offer room for an even greater mind to develop."

"Please, uncle, you underestimate your importance."

Edward picked up his wine glass and toasted to Mycroft's father, a pleased smile on his face. "And humble, too; I'm sure you'll do splendidly."

"What changes must I ready myself for?" While Mycroft had been schooled in politics, geography and history, the day-to-day life of his future job had never truly come up. What little he knew, he'd learnt by observing his uncle whenever they met.

"Your personal security will increase," Sir Ledford, who'd followed the discussion with great interest, explained. "One personal guard will be assigned for your constant protection and another delegation will be appointed for your family's safety."

Mycroft's heart faltered for a second, before increasing in speed. All colour left his face. "Even at night?"

He'd noticed the inconspicuous handful of men stationed around the perimeter, and the tall man outside his uncle's chambers who was currently hovering beyond the double doors to the dining room. Thus far, however, Mycroft had pushed them to the back of his mind. Refusing to acknowledge what, deep down, he'd known all along.

"Especially at night," his uncle confirmed and turned his attention to his dessert.

Gaze fixed firmly on his still half-full plate, Mycroft said nothing, all his attention focused on how to breathe.

 _Never again._

He could feel his father's eyes studying him from the seat opposite his, but Siger Holmes kept his thoughts to himself.

Nicolas, though, had noticed his reaction. "Are you concerned for your protection?"

It took Mycroft a moment to make out the words over the rushing in his ears, before he pressed out, "No. No, not at all." He swallowed. "I was just wondering…"

 _Never again._

Mycroft struggled for words, too distracted by the chaos in his head. There was no way his nightly escapes would go unnoticed with a constant bodyguard. He'd never, ever be able to set foot into Gregory's apartment again. His heart turned cold at the thought.

 _Never, ever again._

The silence continued, stretching out like a dark void. Just when Mycroft was sure he'd have to leave, his stomach a painful twist, his father spoke for the first time that night.

"Not immediately though, am I correct, brother?" Siger Holmes said.

Hope, treacherous and bittersweet clawed its way through Mycroft's chest. He didn't look up, afraid what his face might reveal, and waited with bated breath for his uncle's response.

"Not now, no, but very soon."

Again, Mycroft could do nothing but nod, the rest of his body frozen. Torn between relief and grief, as his mind analysed all alternative outcomes that could follow, searching for a way out. And coming up empty-handed.

But he would have time; Mycroft calmed himself. Time to say goodbye properly, time to apologise, to explain. Time to make it – to make _them_ – count.

 _Time_. The constant variable in his life upon which everything seemed to depend. And the one thing he'd never had.

Without a warning, the doors to the dining room opened and jostled Mycroft out of his thoughts. A woman, just a few years younger than Mycroft, entered, her dark green dress flowing behind her. It was cut close and yet allowed room for fast movement, quite unlike current fashion. An air of rebellion surrounded her.

"Gentlemen. Father," the woman greeted, curtseyed and sat to Sir Ledford's right.

"May I introduce my daughter, Anthea Ledford," Nicolas said, gaze focused on Mycroft. Both his father and uncle knew her then, and Mycroft concluded that she must have been here since the beginning.

Her face woke a familiar memory and distracted Mycroft from what had just occurred. He latched onto it like a lifeline and within seconds, he was able to recall the event. Pushing everything else to the back of his mind, he let the memory resurface again.

They had passed each other in the gardens once, while Mycroft had cut through the rose beet to reach the conference room in time. Startled by his appearance, she'd almost knocked into him.

"We've made acquaintance already, I believe." Mycroft said, voice steady and face calm. The flawlessly crafted mask back in place.

She smiled slightly, the weak twitch of her lips barely noticeable. "Yes, indeed. It's a pleasure, Sir."

Pondering her appearance, all his thoughts concentrated on deducing her, Mycroft turned to Sir Ledford. "May I enquire as to why she accompanied you all the way up here?"

Anthea's lips twitched again and her eyes twinkled in amusement as she answered before her father had a chance to reply. "Curiosity, Sir."

"A boring old castle?" Mycroft challenged, a bit taken aback by her violation of etiquette. "I can imagine a more spectacular place. London is quite thrilling and entertaining already, isn't it?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft saw Nicolas pointedly focusing all his attention on his plate, as he dug into his dessert with more enthusiasm than strictly necessary. Interesting.

"For the common minded, perhaps." Anthea replied, mustering Mycroft intently. Her eyes had hardened and were challenging him to object.

Curiosity piqued, Mycroft tilted his head and held her intent gaze. "And you are not common?"

"Are you?"

Rebellious indeed, Mycroft thought, more amused than anything else. And just a bit impressed. The pain had ebbed to a throbbing somewhere in his chest, waiting.

It seemed Nicolas had not only passed on his temperament and self-esteem to his daughter, but encouraged it to flower and bloom. Most interesting, indeed.

The rest of the meal passed by with idle chatter and the occasional discussion of the purpose of their stay. Mycroft avoided being part of it as much as possible, instead focusing on finishing the remains of his main course. Cold as it was now. It was only fitting, really, since it resembled the ice that had wound its way back around his heart. The excitement of Ms Ledford's arrival abated bit by bit, leaving him hollow.

In the end, both his uncle and Mr. Ledford agreed upon the extension of their stay in Greenwoods Castle for another month, placing their departure in the middle of April. Mycroft listened and agreed, knowing he didn't have much of a choice either way.

When the night had settled and the men had retired to the parlour to continue their conversation in front of the fire with a glass in hand, Mycroft slipped out the door to the terrace. Arms propped up on the railing of the balcony, he stared into the dark. Trying his best not to think, and failing.

"It is not my intention to offend you in any way, but may I be so bold as to ask about your marital status?" he asked after a few minutes without moving his head.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Anthea emerge from the shadows. Unfazed at having been caught she stepped into the light of the door and leaned onto the railing.

"You may, Sir. The question is whether you will."

"A lady of your age is commonly married. But that you took it upon yourself to join your father in his travels says otherwise about you."

"As I said, I am not common."

"So you said," Mycroft agreed. Shifting so his elbow rested on the cold stone beneath his fingers, he turned to face her. "What makes you think that I myself am equally exceptional?"

She looked at him, her gaze hard and piercing and unlike that of any other woman he'd ever encountered. When she spoke, it was with such sincerity and sadness, that Mycroft - for one moment, a fraction of a second - believed that she truly understood.

"It is extraordinary that, when offered the reign over the British Empire, a man would look anything but delighted, don't you think? How uncommon indeed, should his eyes be clouded by the deepest and eldest sorrow instead."

That night, sleep failed to come, and Mycroft tossed and turned for hours, before eventually getting up again. In the dim candlelight he filled sheet after sheet with the elegant curves of his handwriting, carefully explaining in detail what he needed.

 _My dearest brother,  
_ _As you are probably well aware, father and I will return later than initially anticipated. Should you find yourself in need of my assistance, however, don't hesitate to call upon me, however dire the circumstances.  
_ _Now, before you frown at this uncommon brotherly affection and burn the letter in the nearest fire, please listen to what I am asking of you. Should you be able to comply with my wishes, be assured that I am in your debt. A rather attractive prospect, might I suggest.  
_ _Surely, you've already noticed the ring enclosed with the letter. I ask you to find a method to dye the ring black without damaging it. It is a precaution I must take, meant to deceive a potential thief concerning its value. Therefore, the more ordinary it looks the better.  
_ _Should you still doubt the appeal of my request, treat it as a challenge to entertain that extraordinary brain of yours. I have the utmost faith in your abilities._

 _Your desperate brother,  
_ _Mycroft_

When he'd finished, Mycroft unclasped the chain around his neck and put it together with the ring it held into the envelope, sealed it and went back to bed.


	6. As close as we'll ever be

**As Close As We'll ever be  
**

 _(2 months later)_

 _April_

The sun had barely disappeared behind the rooftops of the city when the familiar knocking echoed in the small flat. Greg shot up from where he'd sat perched on the bed, not minding the loose sheets that escaped his latest case files. They could wait, he decided, while that gorgeous person standing on the other side of the door most certainly couldn't. Or at least, Greg didn't want to wait even a second longer. Had he not caught his right foot on the corner of the carpet gracing the floor of the hallway, he might just have succeeded.

When Greg finally opened the door, silver hair dishevelled but with a huge grin on his face, he was met by Mycroft's bemused and slightly concerned face. He had without a doubt heard the incident. Trying not to blush, Greg studied the face he hadn't seen for far too long and was surprised to find worried lines creasing Mycroft's forehead. Or was it uncertainty? Greg wasn't sure, since Mycroft's face was still partly hidden by the hood of his unostentatious coat he wore to travel unnoticed.

Deciding to explore that later, Greg grabbed hold of Mycroft's hand and pulled him into the flat. The door had barely swung close before he welcomed his lover with an enthusiastic embrace and a deep kiss. They hadn't seen each other for nearly two months, with Mycroft out in the country and Greg caught up in a string of murders, and both were more than relieved their parting was finally over. The world was too cold, the people too lifeless and their lives too loveless without the other's presence.

Revelling in the warmth and solidarity of Greg's body pressed against his, Mycroft could feel the strain of the past weeks fall away, the tension in his shoulders easing. Drawing back slightly without letting go, he slipped out of his coat and let it fall to the floor, before resuming their kiss. It deepened quickly, picking up in intensity as Mycroft buried his hands in Greg's silver hair and shuddered at his lover's equally exploring hands.

As soon as they pulled apart for air, Greg began planting soft kisses against Mycroft's skin, moving from his neck up to his ear. Eyes fluttering closed, Mycroft only clung tighter.

"God, I've missed you so much..."

"I know," Greg whimpered. With his nose buried in Mycroft's hair, he nuzzled his neck and drew in a shaky breath. "Me too."

Without parting, they slowly stumbled backwards through the door into the bedroom that also served as living room, hands roaming freely now. Mycroft's jacket was first to go, closely followed by his vest, which got acquainted with Greg's shirt soon after. When Greg's legs collided with the hard wood of the bed, he blindly reached behind him to brush the rest of the files aside, sending papers flying everywhere. Not that they paid it much attention.

That was, until a rather insistent rumble disrupted them and they both froze. From where he was lying underneath Mycroft, Greg gave him a confused look and to his great delight, the other man blushed. What a lovely shade of red.

"My apologies, I came here directly upon returning to London."

Greg laughed and pressed a quick kiss to Mycroft's nose before his eyes widened in amazement. "You skipped dinner at your home to come here earlier? Just to see me?"

"Of course."

It might not have been such a big thing if Mycroft were anyone else, but the food served at the Holmes mansion _was_ bloody fantastic. And Mycroft _had_ just returned from a very tiring journey.

"How noble, I feel flattered. However, I have plans for you tonight, for which strength is apparently essential. Thus, with your agreement, I will prepare a meal," Greg said cheerfully and sat back up.

"Gregory, please, you needn't bother yourself."

"Hush, it's my pleasure. Not going to cook though, your grace must make due with simple bread."

Before Mycroft could disagree further, Greg had sauntered past the two armchairs facing the fireplace and disappeared through the door to the small kitchen, picking his shirt up in the process. Alone, Mycroft took a closer look around the room. The heavy wooden wardrobe still stood at the end of the bed, covering most of the wall to the right of the door leading to the entrance hall. The fireplace to his left hadn't changed either, but Gregory's comfortable armchair had gained a companion. Although not new, the slightly larger, mismatched second armchair looked less worn. Gregory must have purchased it sometime during the two months of his absence, quite possibly to enable both of them to enjoy the fire without the brick wall digging into their backs when sitting on the bed.

Touched, Mycroft moved to join Gregory in the kitchen. Most of the space was taken up by a long wooden counter, cluttered with all sorts of utensils and an assortment of pans and pots hanging on the wall. Greg took a look into the metal pot on the iron cooker, frowned and instead opened the cupboard in search for the promised bread. Deciding to make himself useful, Mycroft took two plates from the shelf and set the square kitchen table.

They ate in relative silence, feet touching under the table, simply enjoying the peaceful quietness. There'd still be enough time to catch up later. For now they took their time studying each other, taking in every change they'd missed during the last two months and relishing the other's presence.

The lines under Gregory's eyes had deepened, Mycroft noted, no doubt due to little sleep and endless nights spent hunched over paperwork or roaming the dark, rainy London streets. His hair had gained a few more silver strands, just enough for him to notice after two months apart. He had ink on his right thumb and a faint smudge behind his ear where an itch had caused him to lay down the pen. Gregory's face, his body language, the soft look in his brown eyes resolved something in Mycroft, a hard knot that had been ever present since the day of his departure, while reminding him why he was here. Gregory felt so familiar, so reliable, Mycroft was torn between the urge to laugh, scream or cry. Instead, he just watched, and put off the inevitable for just a bit longer.

Greg, too, let his gaze absorb every little detail and took note of the wrinkles on Mycroft's forehead that had been overshadowed by his cloak earlier. Mycroft had been worried and still was, if Greg didn't misread the look in his eyes. And there was just a hint of sadness there as well when Mycroft thought Greg wasn't looking. Or maybe regret, Greg wasn't sure. But then again, Mycroft was nothing if not a master of his body and what it expressed. Not so much around Greg, more by choice than inability, as an expression of his trust. That Mycroft felt it necessary to hide it now was unsettling, but Greg decided to push it to the back of his mind. Mycroft would confide in him when he was ready.

Satisfied by the simple meal Greg had prepared, they soon relocated to the living room, where the fireplace crackled welcomingly. They'd pushed the two armchairs together, enabling Greg to lean on to Mycroft without the armrest digging too uncomfortably into his side. A blanket over their legs, feet drawn up under the cover, they watched the flames dance, casting shadows on the wall. It wasn't exactly a chilly night, but both men's attire was slightly too dressed down for the middle of May. Besides, it was undeniably romantic.

With half-lidded eyes and head resting on Mycroft's shoulder, Greg absently traced the ornamentation of the other man's white dress shirt. He could feel the faint pulsating of the younger man's heartbeat under his fingers, accompanied by the slow and gentle rise and fall of his chest. Letting his fingers travel over Mycroft's stomach, up to his chest and down his arms, Greg sighed softly. He'd missed the solid warmth of Mycroft's body. It never failed to ground him when the world span too fast and he was close to losing his grip.

In a sudden rush of need, Greg clutched the fabric of Mycroft's shirt in his hand, as if fearing it might not be real at all or disappear any moment.

"I am deeply sorry that I left with nothing but a letter to explain my absence," Mycroft apologised quietly, having noted the motion.

"Must have been really important, since you've been gone for longer than anticipated," Greg said, playful reproach in his voice. Mycroft leaving the city wasn't uncommon, but it was true they'd never gone without seeing each other for such a long time. Greg understood, though, and would never hold it against him. Nevertheless, that didn't keep him from missing the man and worrying about his well-being. Only Sherlock's brief mentions of his brother – coloured with insults as they were – had kept his mind at ease. Or at least it had helped ease his fears, while his longing only increased.

Mycroft stiffened immediately. A dry "Quite" was all he said, before pulling back his arm from where it had rested around Greg's shoulder.

Bewildered, Greg looked up, not understanding the other man's reaction. Mycroft's normally immaculate hair was tousledfrom when Greg had run his hand through earlier, but his face was cold. The mask Greg hated so much keeping him out. Only with all of his willpower, Greg managed to refrain from reaching out to smooth the lines on his lover's beautiful face, and instead sat up straight.

"If you can't talk about it, that's fine. I understand your work is significant and secret. Just..." Greg sighed, defeated.

"That's not it. I do trust you," Mycroft mumbled quietly, not meeting his gaze. This was it, the very moment he'd dreaded and avoided for far too long tonight. It was time.

"The day before my departure," Mycroft began, "a letter arrived demanding my father and I travel to Edinburgh as soon as possible. It didn't provide detailed information concerning the reason, but I was able to guess what would await me. I fear my concerns were confirmed."

Mycroft briefly closed his eyes, before taking a deep breath and turning to Gregory. Blue eyes met brown, the love he saw reflected giving him the strength to continue.

"You realise that the position of Queen or King is more a representing position than one of power, yes?"

Greg frowned. "You mean, the true decisions are made by someone else?"

"Exactly. Thereby, politics cannot be actively influenced by people of wealth or of malicious intention, for the true ruler is known to only a handful of people."

"And you are one of them." Greg's fingers found Mycroft's on the armrest and let them draw calming patterns on his lover's hand.

"Moreover, I am related to them. My uncle has been assigned said duties by his father, who has in turn been trained by his own father."

A dark premonition made Greg shudder and his heart rate increased in speed. "That doesn't explain why you've been to Edinburgh."

Mycroft nodded, lips pressed together as if trying to hold back what he so desperately wanted to say. Eventually, he turned his hands and laced his fingers with those of his lover. When he spoke, his words were carefully chosen.

"Gregory, you must understand that my uncle has been diagnosed infertile at a very young age and therefore, does not have an heir." His gaze dropped to their hands, unable to watch while understanding slowly darkened Gregory's eyes. "From the day I was born," Mycroft continued, "it was clear that I would one day follow in his footsteps. My entire childhood has been strictly organised and designed to prepare me for that day, and I have waited ever since I've come off age."

"And that day..." Greg swallowed past the lump in his throat. "It arrived in Edinburgh, didn't it?"

Mycroft nodded mutely. "My uncle was on a business trip when his heart failed him. He's alive, but it has become clear that he will not be able to fulfil his duties much longer."

"So you were summoned to be appointed as his successor."

Gaze still focused on their joined hands, Mycroft sighed, defeated. "Not yet, but I expect to hear from the Queen by the end of next month," he admitted and gripped Gregory's hands tighter.

Barely a month, that's all they had left. About 30 days, if they were lucky. With the knowledge every meeting could be their last constantly lingering at the back of their minds. Pervading, hurting. Slow and painful. How could he do that to Gregory - the man he loved above anyone else - when it had been his burden to carry from the very beginning? How could he have let this relationship flourish when he knew from the start how it would inevitably end?

Unaware of those thoughts raging through his lover's head, Greg just looked at Mycroft, eyes wide as he tried to process what had just been said. A shadow fell upon his eyes, hurt and denial clear and sharp, as Greg realised. When he spoke, face hard, his voice was cold and reserved. "Do you mean to end our association?"

Unable to hold his gaze, Mycroft didn't look up, too afraid to face the emotions in Gregory's eyes. "As I said, it's a position of incredible power and dangerous to obtain and execute," he explained slowly, voice quiet and hesitant, "therefore, a group of guards will be appointed with my protection night and day, and –"

"Mycroft," Gregory cut him off, this time louder and with a hint of anger. "Have you come here tonight with the intention to break up with me?!"

The worry lines, the sadness in his eyes, it all made sense now. When Mycroft just continued to stare at their interlaced fingers, Greg yanked his own free. Mycroft's hands were too warm, too familiar, for him to think clearly. The last time they'd met, those hands had held him close and guided him as they danced without music. Sock-clad feet on thick carpet and Mycroft's comforting warmth surrounding him.

They hadn't had enough time. It didn't seem fair. Why couldn't they have more time?

Mycroft looked up then, eyes pleading. "I fear there is no alternative way. It wouldn't be fair to bind you to a lost cause." He reached for his lover's hands again, needing him to understand. Needing him to _see_. But Gregory jerked back and sprang to his feet, eyes blazing and hard.

"I can wait, _no_ , I'm willing to wait! Time is relative."

"You would be alone for an indefinite time. In fact, the chances are slim that an opportunity to meet again would ever present itself."

Greg, who'd started to pace, stopped and whirled around. "But you cannot be sure."

"It wouldn't be fair!" Not to you. The man who's risked everything, because he recognised potential where others saw a big-headed know-it-all who fancied himself a detective. The man who uncovered that detective's brother's heart, while everyone else still doubted his humanity. You deserve so much better, Gregory. You deserve everything.

Warm hands on his knees made Mycroft look straight into Gregory's brown eyes. He'd crouched down in front of his armchair, and Mycroft automatically leaned forward. There was no anger in those eyes, just sorrow and the tiredness of someone who'd fought too long.

"Is it fair to you then?" Greg whispered, blinking away tears of frustration and grief, and Mycroft knew then that he couldn't do it.

Abandoning the couch, he slid forward and down to the ground beside Gregory, who wrapped his arms around him immediately. Mycroft returned the hug and buried his nose in his lover's neck. They remained like that for a while, desperately clinging to one other. Just listening to each other's breathing.

After what felt like an eternity, Mycroft pulled back slightly until their foreheads were touching, eyes closed. "I have something for you. It was meant to be a sign of gratitude for what you have done for me. A reminder of the best of times." Mycroft's hand found Gregory's face, gently caressing his cheek. "You saved me, Gregory."

The ring was cool between his fingers as Mycroft tugged it free from where it rested under his linen shirt. Sherlock had excelled all expectations. Not only was the ring now of a tarnished dark-grey colour, but the three diamonds were completely unrecognisable. The surface itself was slightly rough to the touch, like stone that had been polished by the sea and deposited on the shore too soon to be be fully burnished. Despite the visible change, however, the ring hadn't lost any of its value.

After carefully unclasping the chain and sliding the band free, Mycroft let it rest in the hollow of his palm, unsure how to continue. What had been supposed to be a parting gift now had the potential to be something much more, with a far deeper meaning. A promise never to be spoken aloud.

Gregory's eyes widened as Mycroft reached for his hand, gently prying his fingers open and depositing the ring in his palm. "This is my mother's engagement ring, altered by Sherlock's chemical skills to not lure in potential thieves and greedy eyes." Mycroft carefully squeezed Gregory's hand closed, locking the band inside, and covered it with his own pale hands. "It is mine to give and I'd very much like you to have it."

It could never be a real engagement, but the gesture was just as heart-felt and held so much more than a simple expression of love and devotion. The ring was both _'I have loved you for so long'_ and _'I will love you for the rest of my life'_. A promise to fight against the bonds that would soon rip them apart. And the assurance that should Gregory's life should take a turn for the worse, the ring's value would make sure he'd be safe despite Mycroft's possible inability to help.

Greg stared at his hand, still caught between Mycroft's, mouth slightly open in shock and wonder.

A stab of insecurity and doubt made Mycroft's insides squirm. "I know it isn't the same," he stammered, unsure how to interpret Gregory's lack of response. "It can never be, but I hoped that...the gesture at least -"

"Yes," Greg whispered, a huge smile spreading over his face. "God, yes!" He flung his arms around Mycroft's neck and captured his lips in a deep kiss, conveying what could not be put into words. Mycroft clung tight, relieved and happy, despite what laid ahead.

 _Yes._ The answer to a question that would never be asked, but understood nonetheless. And that was all that mattered.


	7. Ink and Paper

**Ink and Paper**

 _6 weeks later_

 _(June)_

In the end, the day came not with a bang, but on treacherous souls. Quiet, unseen and without much of a warning. Of course, Mycroft had known it would arrive sooner or later. But despite its inevitability, it still managed to catch him off guard.

June had only just arrived, bringing with it the first faint traces of summer. The day was pleasantly warm and Mycroft would still remember, years later, how the sunlight had caressed his hands where they rested on the soft cushioning of the carriage seats. It reminded him of Gregory's touch, light and warm and gentle, and his thoughts strayed further away _._ Dust glittered in the still air, illuminated by the sun beam. He let his eyes wander along the sharp lines where light met dark, higher and higher until they reached the window by which they were formed. It was then that he noticed the young horseman drawing up beside them, clad in riding cloth and with a sturdy, small leather bag tied to his arm. It took one glance to his hip – the outline of a revolver barely noticeable beneath the thick material – and Mycroft's dream shattered like a glass sphere in a storm. So delicate and fragile. He closed his eyes for a fracture of a second, surrounded by the thousand tiny pieces, letting them dig into his skin, before thrusting a hand out to accept the offered letter.

The envelope was thin and white, innocent. He breathed in the clean smell of the parchment, letting the pain flood freely through his body and burn every emotion in its path. Only when the blood had run dry and taken the pain with it did he knock on the carriage door. He'd barely opened the letter when the driver had already changed directions, forcing Mycroft to turn his back not only on his previous life, but also a grey-haired Inspector who was currently sitting in his small flat. Waiting for the arrival of a man who might quite possibly never grace his doorstep again.

The ceremony was short and simple. There was, after all, very little to talk about. Not that Mycroft remembered much of it later. Few people were present, and even fewer raised their voice. He would only recall lots of handshaking and then the encouraging smile of his uncle as Mycroft was passed the signet ring, a symbol of his new position. It was heavier than he'd imagined and its weight seemed to symbolise the responsibility it entitled, pulling at his right hand and causing him to feel slightly off balance.

Hours later, standing in the shadows of the grand balcony of his room, Mycroft fought the urge to twist it around. His fingers itched to touch, but he forbade himself this small sign of discomfort. Hands pulled tight around his body instead as he studied the dark sky, trying his best not to fall apart inside. Other things were far more important now. After all, the well being of the British Empire and its people now rested on his shoulders. His personal affairs were of very little importance in comparison and he must not let himself be distracted. Scars would soon form, as they always did. And then they too, would fade, taking their memories with them.

This was no time for weakness. It would never be again.

~oOo~

Extract letter #1, 7 years ago, recipient: Gregory Lestrade

 _Dearest Gregory,_

 _While it pains me to be robbed of the ability to converse with you face to face, at least for the time being, expressing myself on paper relieves some of my sorrow. Our relationship may be new, but it already runs deeper than anything I've ever felt. The tightness that has lain itself upon my heart when my hand left yours that morning but a week ago, decreases with every word. Though I fear it will not_ _dissipate co_ _mpletely, for it would take your laugh to achieve such wonders._

 _This is my first attempt at nonverbal communication, but it will quite certainly not be the last. Upon realising I could not count the nights I'd spend alone until our paths would cross again on both my hands, it dawned on me that this would be the course of future days and impending destiny. Not because we long for distance, but because our acquaintance has been made known and we must yield to the boundaries of what is socially acceptable._

 _It is, I reckon, mostly my status that brought our parting, and I cannot help but ask for forgiveness. From now on, we'll be forced to interact in secret, for your reputation as much as mine, though it is the former that bestows on me the willpower to do so. My family's influence runs wide and goes deep enough to offer security, but yours would fall from grace with you. And I could never allow that to happen. [...]_

~oOo~

Accompanied by three men, Mycroft left for his uncle's estate the following morning. It had been agreed that he would stay there for a handful of days to get accustomed to his new responsibilities under the supervision of his uncle and be introduced to his future security personal. And so, Mycroft found himself yet again on the roads, this time accompanied by three royal guards, who'd been kindly appointed to him back at the ceremony. They did not wear their usual attire, but Mycroft could see years of service in their stiff posture and expressionless faces.

None of them had uttered a single words so far, neither did they seem inclined to change any time soon. Not that Mycroft was very keen to engage in small-talk. Still, he was quite glad they were only temporary and would be replaced by the final guards that awaited him at his destination. If the security his uncle had personally picked would be reason for joy, however, was left to be seen.

~oOo~

Extract letter #2, 7 years ago, recipient: Mycroft Holmes

 _Dearest Mycroft,_

 _Please do not fret. There's no doubt in my heart that you shall do your utmost to cut our time apart as short as possible. And I would not have agreed_ _continue our relationship_ _had I been intimidated by the restrictions we are breaking while doing so. Certain measures to keep it hidden from the face of the public are, of course, unpreventable._

 _I'm well aware of the risks involved and what great damage our discovery will undoubtedly provoke. But while my mind urges me to reconsider, I know in my heart I could not severe the ties that bind us together. It is a battle I lost long ago. How long, I cannot say. Nor do I regret it. My affection is yours and yours alone to receive. [...]_

~oOo~

"Good." One more glance at the carefully acquired information and Mycroft had committed it all to memory. A man's entire life, catalogued and stored away in his head.

"Very good," he repeated, nodding absently. The perfect solution to a possible future problem. Cut off the threat at its roots, his grandfather always said, and take it out of the game before it can even ponder the rules. 'Who we are is defined by the life we've lived and dream of having in the future; while the experiences and memories we've made and hope of acquiring are, in return, what shapes us.' With just a flick of his hands, a single word, Mycroft was able to end him. Take away everything this man held dear. His past, his dreams, his future. Even himself; the essence of what he was.

It would be so easy, Mycroft thought, and wondered where his dreams and future had gone. And if whomever took it had felt just as powerful and weary and hollow.

"He will be an excellent personal guard, Sir," the commander assured him, the careful pride of an experienced soldier in his stance and voice. "I've picked him myself and can personally vouch for his capability. The rest of the guard have served under my command for at least three years and Sir Edward Holmes has never expressed any complains of feeling crowded."

The commander showed him the rest of the files, laying before him the life of one man after another. While he talked, Mycroft listened and nodded along. Back straight and head held high. It was warm in the house and the thick walls and small windows of his uncle's dining room did nothing to encourage a cooling breeze. His clothes were tight and his skin prickled with unease. But he kept composed, while the commander stood just a little too close and the house was just a little too still and unfamiliar.

When the last file was closed and the commander faced him again, Mycroft did the same. "It is an honour to be head of your security, Sir. I assure you your safety will be in the best of hands."

Mycroft couldn't have cared less.

~oOo~

Extract letter #73, 5 years ago, recipient: Gregory Lestrade

 _[…] My brother informed me you have, as he terms it, been rewarded for 'outstanding stupidity and an astonishing lack of brain activity' by being appointed Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard. The stupidity, I can only conclude, does not lie with you but with the people who only now find that step advisable. You were a brilliant Sergeant and there is no flicker of doubt in my mind that you will make an even more brilliant Inspector. I am incredible proud to call you my love and know for certainty that you shall excel at your new work. If you find yourself free next Thursday night, we can celebrate your promotion accordingly. I will make sure to charm the cook into putting together something transportable for dinner, so that I may sneak away with a few bits and a bottle from the cellar. You deserve to be indulged, and I shall do my utmost to provide, my love. [...]_

~oOo~

He was shorter than Mycroft had imagined. Then again, few people were taller than him and he tended to look down on others frequently; a fortunate will of nature since it served as advantage in his line of profession.

However, Mycroft did not doubt the man would make a more than adequate personal guard. It was clear from the way he moved that he was agile and strong, the distinct line of muscles noticeable even through his dark clothes. His blue eyes never rested but darted around to access his surroundings, undoubtedly seeking out threats, possible weapons and escape routes all at once. His face framed by short blond hair, was round and kind, but inconspicuous enough to not draw too much attention.

"John Watson, Sir," he introduced himself and bowed slightly. He'd not said 'Captain', Mycroft noted, making a mental note to explore that further. Few men refrained from using and insisting on their titles and Mycroft had the suspicion his was well earned. That Commander Sholto had picked him to ensure Mycroft's personal security was only proof of that.

A quick nod from Mycroft and Watson led the way out of his guest rooms, through the carpeted halls and across the yard to the waiting carriage. Behind Mycroft, one of the many servants followed silently, carrying his luggage. Without wasting much time, Mycroft thanked his uncle for his hostility and accepted the wishes of luck in return.

To his uncle's right stood Sir Ledford; to his left Mycroft's aunt, and they all said their goodbyes, before Mycroft entered the carriage. As they passed the gates and the house disappeared from view, he wondered briefly where Ms Ledford had been.

They drove in silence, Mycroft sitting behind the driver with Watson across from him. The carriage walls were thicker than what he was used to, blocking out most of the noises around them.

Without really intending to, Mycroft estimated the solidity of the walls and what distance it would take to breach it with the bullet of a revolver. How high were the chances it would hit him? How likely was it that the wound would be fatale? Would the driver react fast enough? The next hospital was more than haf a day's ride away. But John Watson was a doctor. Had he drunk and eaten enough that morning to ensure his body was strong enough to cope with the maximum amount of endurable blood loss?

It was too quiet and the memories kept pressing to the front. Like wasps against a net, buzzing and pushing. Ready to strike.

"Sir." Watson's voice cut through his thoughts like a knife. "Is there anything I should know before we arrive?"

"I am unsure of what you are referring to."

Mycroft examined him with an intense look, but the man did not flinch. "I was merely ensuring I would not be unaware of habits which influence your daily schedule. Security is much easier indoors and I would rather be prepared should you decide upon extended trips around the city."

"No," Mycroft answered. Just a bit too fast; a bit too defensive. But Watson didn't notice.

~oOo~

Extract letter #158, 3 years ago, recipient: Mycroft Holmes

 _[..] There is little point in dwelling on dreams, but I cannot help but fantasise what we could have been had the circumstances been of a different nature. Less dark and doomed. Do you reckon a change will ever come? Perhaps, with time, things will evolve. They always do, after all, and if society develops, why not for the better, for once. It is a pointless thought, I'm well aware, but nonetheless comforting._

 _Just imagine, you and I walking side by side through the streets. Hands entwined, visible for everyone to see or stuffed into coat pockets when the air is chilly. We would sit side by side at your mother's birthday and brush hands under the table. At your brother's wedding – should this day ever come – you would take my hand and I would follow you past the long dinner tables to the wide space under the crystal chandelier. Your steps are sure, mine still a bit clumsy, but it does not matter. With your hand warm on my hip, the saloon around us disappears as we dance. [...]_

~oOo~

They had long left half of their journey behind, before Mycroft broke the silence that seemed to become thicker with every passing minute. He felt bare under the soldier's gaze, with wounds still too new to be familiar, subconsciously convinced the other man could see them, would examine them, and draw his conclusion.

"You have been praised by many for your abilities. Mainly quick thinking, a clear head when under pressure and a remarkable sense of loyalty." Mycroft paused, contemplating. "What made you believe you would be a good personal guard?"

"Commander Sholto offered to train me after my return from active duty and it was him who approached me in regard to your personal protection."

"And you just thought you would trust his judgement?"

Mycroft studied Watson intently, one eyebrow raised in feigned surprise. This time, the other man fidgeted a bit, the slight clenching and unclenching of his hands barely noticeable. His body grew rigid and his chest still, before the air left his lungs in a soundless, but forced stream. Mycroft wondered what it meant.

"The battlefield of a war is not that much different from that of politics, Sir."

And with a startling clarity, Mycroft realised that Watson feared him. Not the fear of cowards, who shrank in front of nobility and lowered their heads when faced by men of higher status then themselves. But the fear that came with knowledge. For Watson, the man sitting in front of him was one of the most powerful and most secret in the land. Someone who was capable of destroying him if he wished to do so, without having to justify his motives later. He held in his hand the future of the Kingdom as well as the citizens inhabiting it. And it had fallen on Watson to protect him, to ensure he'd keep breathing until his duty was finished, or face the consequences of failure.

~oOo~

Extract letter #201, 1 years ago, recipient: Mycroft Holmes

 _[…] Do you remember that night we spent on your grandparent's grounds, when we had a full day to ourselves? Your grandfather had died, and since your father had had business elsewhere, it fell on you to survey the estate and appoint a temporary groundskeeper. One of my more difficult cases showed ties to a smith's family nearby and with a bit persuasion, I was allowed to go investigate on my own._

 _I still dream of the gardens every now and then, and how the sunlight caught in your eyes. It washes over me with a pleasant warmth whenever I stroll through St James' Park on my way to Scotland Yard, the memory so clear, so tangible I often catch myself reaching out to take your hand in mine. Sitting by the river bank under the clear canopy of stars that night, I felt convinced no one and nothing could ever touch us again. It was an addiction of an entirely different kind and so much harder to obtain. I was high on love and the incomparable, ineffable knowledge of being understood without restraint._

 _You were reading, do you remember? Some old book which you'd found in your grandfather's library, covered in dust. Head nestled in my lap you tried to decipher the words by the diminishing daylight and glow from the lamb we brought with us. We talked and you read, neither moving until the candle had burned out and I felt more emotionally naked than ever before in my life. It was frightening, it was liberating. Being alive had never felt so wonderful and so much like a gift. [...]_

~oOo~

With such care and gentleness many if not most would not have thought Mycroft Holmes capable of possessing, he sealed envelope after envelope and bound them together. The royal blue of the satin bands stood in stark contrast to the cream-coloured paper beneath. His elegant script in royal blue so different to the messy scribble written with graphite. The parchment alternated between Mycroft's expensive, thick stationery and the cheap envelopes Greg had used, darker and wrinkled. They'd agreed early on that Greg would always send Mycroft's letters back along his, thus forgoing the necessary precaution to burn them. Here, in the safety of the Holmes manor, they would not fall into unwanted hands and, if Mycroft was completely honest with himself, he liked keeping them close. A relationship, deep and complex, forever etched into paper.

When he was done, Mycroft stared at the neat stacks, shoulders hunched and eyes glazed. They were twelve in total, with over forty letters each, depending on their thickness. Up to four letters a month, but always at least one. Filled with memories and dreams, confessions of love and hopes of a better, brighter future for them and themselves.

Mycroft blinked, irritated by the dampness in his eyes, and sighed softly. Not trusting himself to linger any longer, he swiftly pulled forth the square wooden box his mother had given him on his 12th birthday, and sorted the stacks in before shutting the lit with a dull thud. It was made of a stern, dark wood - width- and richly embellished with delicate ornaments. He gently traced the smoothed-out surface along the edges and around the sturdy steel lock, rounded by frequent contact with his younger self's fingers and gleaming in the daylight.

It had kept safe his most treasured possessions of his youth - as short as it had been -, when a delicate flower-shaped stone or a favourite book had still seemed of highest value. That from now on it would hold his heart seemed only fitting. Old, a bit battered and looking rather inconspicuous, it would not draw attention. The complicated lock was merely a matter of assurance. It clicked shut and trapped a life within.

An end to everything that would now define the past.

~oOo~

Letter #239 - not sent, lying on top of twelve carefully bound stacks of letters

 _My dearest Gregory,_

 _It has now been many years since we first stumbled upon each other on the streets, and a lot longer since my eyes first caught yours. It seems a lifetime ago, but the tenderness with which you held my brother close, despite whatever crimes he might have committed, has never escaped my mind. Whenever I find myself lucky enough to catch you looking at me with that same care, but grazed with deep affection, my heart swells with the force of a love too great to describe._

 _It is all-consuming and makes me believe I am able to fly. Hoping to never again touch ground. You showed me freedom of heart and mind I would have not found by myself and without which I'd undoubtedly be a much colder, lonelier man. Bitter and resentful, forever destined to suffer abhorrence when faced with the cruel reality of this world. For that deed, I'm eternally in your debt._

 _And while my heart aches at the thought, I hope you'll receive with which you have gifted me from someone else who you someday call dear. Please, do not hesitate to put this doomed relationship behind and open yourself to one that has a future. If you chose to forget, be assured guilt is not necessary, for I believe it is essential to commit to a new, intimate connection. And if it makes you happy, I can wish for nothing more; nothing less._

 _You are an extraordinary man, Gregory Lestrade, never doubt that. Both your intelligence and wit exceed that of many and you possess a heart that this world is not worthy of._ _Gentle and caring, and above all, kind. Even to those who deserve it least. Even to me._

 _I have and will always love you, forever._

 _Be safe._

 _Mycroft_


	8. An Act of Kindess

**A/N:** Dear Lord, this took ages. Not so much the writing itself, but the editing. I'm no Victorian times specialist or a historian or such, so I'm sorry if this doesn't add up. Also, I do realise it's normally not that cold in August, but this is London we're talking about, after all. Coldness and rain are inevitable...  
An enormous thanks to all those lovely people who left comments on this fic! It means the world to me and keeps me writing, even when I'd rather live out the story in my head alone instead.

* * *

 **An Act of Kindness**

"It was love at first sight, at last sight, at ever and ever sight." - Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita

 _August_

 _(6 weeks later)_

"Dull!"

With a muffled splash, the torn umbrella was dropped to the floor, mud splattering everywhere as it landed on the dirty alley ground. Beside Greg, Dimmock let out a string of curses and turned, face red with suppressed rage. The wet squeak of Dimmock's soles could still be heard even after he disappeared into the night.

Greg just sighed and curled his frozen toes. His feet were utterly drenched, his shoes soaked through hours ago, and he was slowly but steadily losing feeling in his smallest toes. All he really wanted was a hot cup of tea, a nice blanket and to sleep for at least a week. Unfortunately, the London criminals had very little interest in their prosecutors' well-being, which was why he was standing in the rain, wet, cold and miserable, with a bored consulting detective at his back, overworked police men stumbling around and no clue as to who was responsible for the dreadful sight before them.

"Interesting cases, Lestrade!" Sherlock exclaimed, looking at him as if he were at fault for all the wrongs in the world. "Not petty crimes of revenge. We agreed that you would only call me if the cases were interesting!"

Greg sighed again, the action almost second nature now. "No, you talked, I objected and you ignored me. That is not what I would call an agreement."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pointed at the covered body on the floor. "This is barely a four! Do not tell me I came all the way for a FOUR!?"

"Well, no one asked you to come, did they?" Greg's patience was wearing dangerously thin. Sleep deprivation definitely wasn't good for his temper. "You just bloody turned up here, demanding attention and being annoying!"

"It is not my fault you seem unable to solve even the most simple of cases!" Sherlock bit back.

Greg had just had about enough. "Well then please, enlighten us with your magical skills!"

"My deductions are highly scientific and more helpful than anything you've come up with so far."

"I don't bloody care!" God, he was so tired.

Taken off guard by the Inspector's uncharacteristic outburst, Sherlock spun around in a flurry of his coat to focus his attention on the bins cluttered against the brick wall, thereby declaring them more worthy of his superb intellect than Lestrade. Sherlock's need for demonstrating said intellect, however, brought him out of his sulking faster than even Lestrade would have predicted. The Inspector didn't quite succeed in hiding his smile as Sherlock started firing off his deductions. Not that trying to keep anything from a Holmes ever did any good.

"This is so obviously an act of revenge, I wonder how none of your team could connect the dots, seeing as they're highly likely to have partaken in similar business as well."

Greg gaped. "What, murder?"

"No, Lestrade," Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Prostitution."

Dumbfounded, Greg crossed the distance to the corpse and knelt down beside the other man, who was briskly pulling the sheet aside. Underneath it was a tall woman, between 30 and 40 years old, with curly brown hair and a heart-shaped face. She was pretty, Greg supposed, when one ignored the way her face contorted in agony and the rather nasty gash that cut her throat, which was undeniably the cause of death. It was the ordinary sort of beauty. The kind that pleased the eye, but lacked any sort of individuality. Easily forgettable. He wondered absently whether she'd suffered long, or if death had taken pity on her.

"There's no evidence of -"

"There is plenty of evidence, look at her dress, her hair. And her shoes! How can you not see that?"

Greg turned his gaze back to the body and tried to see what Holmes saw. He let his eyes wander over her slim form and the now muddy dress, down to her shoes and back up again, coming up empty-handed. Used to the bitter sting of frustration and humiliation, he just shrugged and accepted Sherlock's impromptu explanation.

"So she partook in shady business, that is not very unusual."

"No. Both choice of weapon and location, however, clearly indicate anger. She bled out slowly and there are shallow cuts on her cleavage applied post mortem. Hardly necessary seeing as she was already dead, so it must have served another purpose."

"Revenge," Greg muttered, frowning despite the neat explanation all evidence was obviously pointing to.

Sherlock snorted condescendingly. "Husband is busy, treats wife badly, wife sneaks out to earn some of her own. And sooner or later, he gets wind of his wife's affairs and decides to cut off the rotten apple."

"But why-"

"Why the husband and not one of her clients?" Sherlock interrupted impatiently. He wiped mud off her left ring finger and revealed what was clearly the imprint of a recently worn ring." Because he is the only one who would have reason to take her wedding ring. What a foolish, sentimental act. So predictable and utterly BORING!"

Greg shot him a reproachful look, which Sherlock waved away with an imperious gesture. "Oh please, why should I care about some lowly woman's indiscretions?"

Before Greg could decide whether replying was worth it, Dimmock reappeared at his side, noticeably out of breath, and handed Lestrade a white envelope. Greg had barely time to take notice of the broken seal when Dimmock had regained his breath.

"Because she is not just 'some lowly woman', but Elizabeth Westforth, wife of parliament member Joseph Westforth," Dimmock said and nodded towards the letter. "Mr. Westforth has just come back home from a weekend at his country house, finding his wife missing upon his return."

"It matters not." With the grace of a dancer and the conceit of a king, Sherlock stood and turned on his heel towards the main road.

Greg also stood, with much less grace and a rather alarming crack in his left knee which he would rather not analyse further. "Wait, is that all? What about evidence?"

Without stopping in his stride, Sherlock just called over his shoulder, "I'm not the police, Lestrade," before rounding the corner and disappearing from view.

"Bloody Holmes..." Greg huffed, took one last look at the body on the ground and then instructed his team to pack up for tonight. This case, he knew very well, had just become much more complex than they'd anticipated.

~oOo~

The first time Greg had laid eyes on Mycroft, things had been much different. Or, looking back now, maybe not so different after all.

Young and filled with dreams of a bright future, Greg had left the little town in which he'd spent his childhood, and moved to stay with a distant relative in London. Not long after, just three days past his nineteenth birthday, he joined Scotland Yard. As a police officer Greg hoped to do respectable work which would enable him to leave his mark on this world, however small it might turn out to be. After all, what greater goal was there than using what one had to help others?

The night he'd first crossed paths with the Holmes', the night he'd later remember as the beginning of both his misery and his greatest joy, had started as many London nights do. Rainy and cold. Had he known its importance, Greg might have taken better care of his attire that night, clothes picked more to impress and less to be practical. His steps might have faltered when his gaze first caught sight of the elegant, huge mansion, with its magnificent façade and breath taking garden. Would he have hesitated before the door? Would he have asked the servant opening it to take over instead of insisting to be let in himself?

Maybe. Maybe not. Destiny is a strange and wondrous thing.

Police Constable Lestrade pondered none of these questions when he left for work that evening. He'd just been cleared for active duty and was patrolling the streets at midnight, having got the most uncomfortable shifts as a newly minted officer of the law. It was a hard, boring routine that required strong feet and a great amount of confidence when faced with the dark of the night. When the lights in the homes went out, feeble gas street lights and a single lamp in his hand was all that remained, along with the intangible noises that seemed to follow his every step.

Except for a few drunken fools who thought it an acceptable idea to vent their anger in a fist fight, his shift had passed so far without any incident worth mentioning. The steady pounding of his heavy boots on the wet curb had been the only sound that accompanied his lone walk ever since. He therefore almost dismissed it as a trick of his mind, a result of spending too much time alone in the dark, when the faint sound of something sharp scrapping on metal reached his ears. Immediately, Greg froze and waited, peering into the alley to his right and willing his eyes to adjust to the darkness there. When his vision had become somewhat clearer, Greg crept forward, careful to avoid making any sounds to alert anyone of his presence.

First, he thought he'd misheard, or that his over-sensitive hearing had picked up the claw-scraping of one of the many rats scuttling through the gutter. The rain had provided them with a constant stream of fouled food and flooded them to the surface when the underground of London had reached its limit. But a second look had him draw in a sharp breath and then lunge forward.

Amidst a pile of stinking ripped clothes and trash, half hidden by the entrance of an abandoned building and leaning heavily against the wall, was a man. His face was bloody, eyes closed, and were it not for the ragged, shallow breathing and one slender hand clinging to a long metal bar, Greg would have believed him dead. It wouldn't have been his first, either. His time in training had shown him the dark, unpleasant side of the city that few people truly knew and even fewer talked about. It had, however, not been able to fully quench his unwavering faith in justice. The reckless, naive boy who'd first set foot on London ground, had vanished though, leaving behind a man who, despite being aware of mankind's foibles, still believed humans were also capable of great kindness. A man who would and could never deny help, no matter the consequences. A dangerous trait, which had him crouching and examining the stranger without hesitation.

The man wasn't so much a man, but a boy of maybe fourteen years, with thick, curly, dark hair and a sharp face. His curls, damp with blood and rain, clung to his forehead. As Greg tipped his head up to take his pulse, the boy's grip on the metal bar tightened and raised it in a weak attempt to defend himself. The metal scratched along the stone wall, but didn't get far when Greg grabbed the boy by his arms and heaved him further up the stairs, away from the rain and wind into the shelter of the building's entrance. Once he'd propped him up against the door, Greg raised his lamp and gently slapped the boy's cheek, who'd gone limp again.

"Wake up, lad."

Slowly, the boy's head turned and after a bit of confused blinking, Greg stared into a pair of piercing blue eyes. The intensity of his stare unsettled him. It was deep and uncomfortably accusing, as if Greg was responsible for his current predicament. Trying to look unaffected, Greg reached for his badge, but promptly changed his mind.

Instead, he pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at the wound on the boy's head. It seemed the young man had taken to the wrong kind of crowd. That, or the poor boy had been a victim of thievery. No wonder, who let their offspring run errands on their own after nightfall?

"What's your name, lad?" Lestrade asked gently, trying his best not to frown in worry when the blood continued to flow.

The boy started coughing, wet and painful, and Greg saw him slipping back into unconsciousness. He reached forward to steady his head and found his forehead to be hot and sticky with sweat and blood. A surge of panic threatened to overwhelm him, but Greg pushed it down.

"No, stay with me, I need to know if there's someone who can help you." The hospital wouldn't take him without someone trustworthy stepping up to pay for his treatment. A simple street urchin and possible thief without a future would be a waste of time and resources, and just turn up again sooner or later. A lost cause. "Please, I can't take you to hospital without a name!"

At the word 'hospital', the boy jerked back, eyes wide. "No, please," he pleaded, voice hoarse and weak. And then, as if the sudden motion had depleted his last energy reserves, he sacked back and whispered a barely audible "Take me home", before he lost consciousness completely. Without Greg's firm, steady grip on his head and arm, he would have slipped back onto the rough stairs again.

Not losing any time, Greg searched the boy's pockets and checked for wounds beside the gash on the head. To his great astonishment, the stranger's clothes were made of a finer material than he'd first thought. In fact, ignoring the layers of dirt and unidentifiable substances, the black trousers, dark blue vest and what had once been a white shirt seemed to be high class; far beyond Greg's pay grade. Shoes were none in sight, leaving behind dirty, naked feet and little doubt to how and why they had gone missing. If anything like the rest of his attire, Greg assumed they'd pay nicely for a few months' rent, just like the absent buttons that had once adorned the front of both vest and shirt. Other than that, there was nothing. No snippet of paper, no name tag, no clue to whomever was half sprawled across Greg's lab.

He'd almost given up, when his fingertips traced over the hem of the boys shirt and found the slight rise of some form stitched into the inner hem. After turning the material, a royal blue 'H' glistened in the light of his lamp. None the wiser, Greg sighed and then cursed as the shirt material rode up and revealed black dots on the skin of the boy's armpit. They were recent and still crusted with blood. Greg shuddered. The boy had pierced the skin at least twice. With which drug the syringe had been filled, Greg couldn't tell, but an overdose was very likely considering the boy's age and nearly non-existent weight. Not to mention his steadily increasing temperature. When he hastily brushed the back of his hand over the clammy forehead a second time, it was hotter than before, although Greg's hands had warmed up considerably since. The boy moaned, breath flat and shallow.

Shit. Greg cursed and without hesitating, pulled out his whistle. He'd managed to bundle the limp form into his coat, when the tall silhouette of the second PC assigned to the seventh district emerged from the dark of the main street.

"Lestrade?"

"Anderson, over here."

The officer approached cautiously and gasped when he spotted the boy in his partner's arms. "Who is that?"

"No idea," Greg replied, voice tinged with dismay at Anderson's clear averseness. Fingers stiff from the cold, he fumbled with the shirt hem before being able to turn it over and reveal the letter. "That's all I could find."

Anderson crouched, own lamp held aloof, and recoiled when he recognised the emblem, immediately followed by a strangled cry of "Holmes". His features where torn between fear and revulsion, and left no doubt to his attitude towards said family.

"Holmes?" Greg repeated, unfazed by the name. "Isn't that one of the old families owning half …?"

"Not just one of many, Lestrade, but one of the oldest and richest! Proud and arrogant to the root. Should you find yourself unfortunate enough to ever cross their path, run as fast as you can or bow and pray. Rumours have it the head of the lot, Lord George Holmes, had his first born daughter killed to forestall having to share the family fortune with an outsider." He grabbed hold of Greg's upper arm and dug his fingers into his flesh, unconsciously restraining him. His arm shook with repressed fear. "And those brave enough to investigate, ended up dead or were never seen again. My grandfather wasn't one of them, but he always recalls that horrific story whenever he tells me of his police days. And that wasn't the only incident, no! There was this one time where -"

But Greg wasn't listening. Strong hands cradled the limp body close and, after a bit of struggling to regain his balance, Greg lifted the boy into his arms.

"What are you doing, Greg?" Anderson asked incredulously.

"The hospital won't take him without a name, but as rich as his family seems to be, they'll have a family physician. The Holmes estate is quite a bit away, I know, but we should be able to find a carriage once we get to the main road and out of this sketchy neighbourhood. We can carry him 'till then."

"Are you mad, you can't just leave your post! It's a violation of orders and will have serious consequences. Who cares what happens to the boy, the Holmes family cannot be trusted. He probably isn't even one of them, but has nicked the clothes and shot up from what he could sell."

"Leaving him here will have consequences, too. Deadly ones!" Greg hissed back, already out of the alley and on his way to the main street. He could feel the boy begin to shake and images of violently twitching limbs and faces contorted in a deadly scream swamped his mind. His heartbeat increased, legs moving faster.

"Unlike you, I like having a roof above my head and I'd rather keep the job that ensures I do. So if you insist on carrying him, do it yourself." Anderson bit back angrily. Technically, he was the one in command tonight, and furious the other PC would ignore his instructions. If he was caught doing rounds on his own, the chief would be beside himself with rage. Without looking back at Lestrade's retreating form, Anderson turned in the opposite direction, determined to stay as far away from trouble as possible, in case an investigation came to pass.

Greg refused to think about the repercussions this may have on his career as he abandoned his post and carried the boy home in the middle of the night. He almost took a wrong turn more than once, losing his way, before finding the right path as the clock in the distance rang the early hour of the morning. Just as his legs threatened to give out, he crossed paths with a lonely cabdriver of some rich man or another who'd been about to return home and persuaded him to an extra round. While Greg held the now shivering boy in his arms, the carriage driver eyed them suspiciously and, not wanting to be seen with such company by his patronage, dropped them off just before entering what was the city's most expansive area. The charged price was scandalous, but Lestrade emptied his purse without complained and didn't look back when the cart turned around.

The upper class part of London wasn't a place Greg had frequented before. He might have stood out like a rat in a crowd of peacock if the streets hadn't been void of any residents, Greg thought bitterly. To his relief, he recognised the streets thanks to the maps hanging in the Yard, so orientation came easily. However, that did not lessen the distance which had to be walked and with his energy already depleted, his breathing soon came in ragged breaths and every step felt heavier than the last.

Numb and thinking of nothing but the quivering boy in his arms, Greg finally found himself stumbling past the sharply cut garden hedges and on the lit cobblestone leading up to the two-winged stairway. Too occupied with his task to keep hold of the weight in his arms, eyes fixed firmly on the double door entrance, the guard running up behind him escaped his notice until he reached the landing.

What happened next was a blur as Greg could hear little but the blood rushing in his ears and the whizzing of his breath as exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him. However, he must have at some point banged rather urgently on the door, since he found himself being half dragged, half pushed along a short carpeted corridor into what could only be described as the most pompous, tremendous entrance hall Greg was sure existed. He was only half aware of the servants and maids gathering around him, gasping in shock but not daring to touch him, as his legs gave out and he sank to his knees.

"Fetch Dr. Emslen, now!" The authoritative voice of whom Greg would later learn was Lord George Holmes himself echoed in the hall. And for the first time, Greg tore his gaze away from the pale face in his arms and looked up.

Halfway down the double staircase, elegantly poised and face as emotionless as his voice, stood an elderly man with full, white hair and a haughty nose. He made no move to descend the stairs to enquire to the health of who Greg was now sure was the Lord's grandson, even as a middle-aged woman in an expensive dressing gown flew down the stairs, closely followed by a man in much similar attire. She crouched down in front of him, cradled the boy's face with loving hands and gently pulled him into her own lab, fingers clenching around his wrist as she desperately searched for a pulse.

"What happened?" she whispered, icy blue eyes meeting Greg's. But before he could form any kind of response, he was seized roughly from behind and dragged backwards by two strong men. Too weak to even stand upright, he didn't resist.

"Should you ever speak of this incident to anyone, your life will be the last thing you'll worry about. You have never seen this boy, nor will you set foot anywhere near this estate ever again. Oblige, or you'll be deeply sorry, PC Lestrade!" The man's warm breath ghosted over his ear and Greg shuddered involuntary. He wanted to demand answers, to scream at the cold face still staring at him from the middle of the staircase, to nod obediently and leave. He was distantly aware of daft fingers slipping his badge and identification back into his trouser pocket, before they returned to his collar. Powerless, his limbs obliged as he was dragged through the door, his eyes sweeping through the hall one last time.

And there, at the top of the stairs to the next floor, stood a young man; with auburn hair tousled and shirt and waistcoat rumpled from sitting in his room. Waiting, worrying. His face was full of fear, relief, and utter terror, as he watched the turmoil at the bottom of the stairs. But instead of hurrying down and adding to the chaos, he stood frozen, lost in the sheer endless space of the hall.

Greg could still see his face, even as the doors to the entrance hall and finally the entrance door itself fell shut in front of him and he was shoved to the floor. Blinking, he waited for the nausea to pass before sitting up and slowly walking down to the yard and through the front garden. Only when he'd already left the premises did he notice that he'd left behind his coat, still wrapped around the quivering boy's body.


	9. Of Lies and Truths not spoken

**Of Lies and Truths not spoken**

"Every word has consequences. Every silence, too."  
\- Jean-Paul Sartre, The Selected Essays

 _August_

 _(two days later)_

With Sherlock's help, solving Mrs Westforth's death should have been a neat affair, but Inspector Lestrade had no such luck. To convict Mr Westforth of the murder Sherlock was sure he'd committed, the private detective's conclusions were not enough. He needed evidence, which in his case, was nearly impossible to attain. Seeing as there was nothing tight proof whatsoever. Paying the man a visit in person was, therefore, inevitable, although Lestrade was well aware the odds were not in their favour.

Mr. Westforth was the spitting image of a wealthy and influential member of Parliament. Slightly red-faced, with thin dark hair and a well-nourished form that filled out his suit. Head held high and lips pressed thinly together, Westforth stared at him with a posture of arrogance rather than pride.

"Am I assuming correctly that you have made no progress whatsoever as of yet?"

Lestrade's grip on the armrest tightened briefly, before he caught himself and relaxed back into the armchair. Barely two days had passed since they'd found the body of Mrs. Westforth, and they'd had enough on their hands trying to keep the gruesome, scandalous details of her passing well away from the public eye. Condescension was totally unwarranted. Not that Mr. Westforth particularly cared.

"No, Sir, we have not yet been able to find the perpetrator. However, after carefully revising the evidence found upon the scene of the crime, we are convinced that a look around your home might help us in our investigation."

Mr. Westforth's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Are you accusing me of being involved in my wife's unfortunate demise?"

He'd leaned forward in his seat, and Lestrade had to fight the urge to not shrink back. "We have to investigate all possible leads, Sir."

"And what makes you think _I_ should be the first suspect on your list?"

Lestrade hesitated, aware he was entering dangerous territory. If word of Sherlock Holmes' involvement in his policework reached influential ears, Lestrade's future with the Yard could be seriously compromised. In the past, Mycroft's protecting hand had prevented complaints and threats from reaching high ranking ears, but now Lestrade wasn't sure how far the hand still reached. For Sherlock, yes, but he wasn't so sure about himself.

"If you have no evidence to warrant my interrogation, do remove yourself from my grounds," Mr Westforth said with a small, gleeful smile. With his right hand, he gave a dismissing wave, clearly showing that Lestrade was no longer worthy of his time, and reached for the morning paper.

The motion broke something in Lestrade. It reawakened memories and emotions long buried and with the sudden power of a tidal wave, it drowned out all reason. "Tell me, Mr Westforth, had your wife displayed any suspicious behaviour as of late that caused you to doubt her faithfulness?"

He knew the moment the words had left his mouth that he'd crossed the carefully crafted line between them, and yet he couldn't bring himself to care. The corners of Mr Westforth's mouth dropped and drew back to reveal a line of teeth. Reminding Lestrade of a snarling dog ready to bite.

"I am not the kind of man that women seek reprieve from. In fact, most would brawl over my companionship. Success and wealth have that effect on women and I can speak from experience here." His eyes gleamed with malicious glee. "Unlike you, Mr Lestrade."

Lestrade balled his hand into a fist and cocked his head to the side as he shot another jest in Westforth's direction. "Her attire gave reason to believe otherwise."

"What exactly are you implying?"

"Maybe she decided to seek companionship with men who would _appreciate_ her presence." Anger had taken the upper hand and caution was left flown to the wind. "So few can afford to be wealthy _and_ appealing to the eye. Would you not mind explaining where we might find her wedding ring, by any chance?"

Mr. Westforth's facial features derailed completely. "How dare you!"

Without much ceremony, Lestrade and his team of two officers were swiftly escorted to the front door and pushed out onto the pavement. Officer Radley swore beside him, barely avoiding being run over by a carriage. Both his companions steeled worried sideway glances towards him, but said nothing as they hurried back to the Yard. Lestrade however, could still hear the blood rushing in his ears when they reached their destination and was glad he could hide his shaking hands in his coat pockets. Mr Westworth's excuses had hit him deeper than he was willing to admit and moreover, both his condescending manner and their impromptu ejection had brought back unwanted memories with startling clarity. It wasn't so much that he'd had to deal with nobility, but that he knew retaliation would not be possible. The helplessness was just as unbearable as he remembered.

In a fit of blind ambition and defiance, Lestrade spent the following two days trying to talk to Mr Westforth's staff without the man's knowledge. A task easier planned than done. He managed to catch the coachman by pure luck, but all he discovered was that Mr Westforth had already been agitated when they left London a few days before the night of murder. Apparently, Mr Westforth had not immediately returned to his home upon his homecoming, but stopped by an antique shop near the docks. When enquiring after the ring, the coachman simply shrugged, attention already focused on counting the money Lestrade had reluctantly passed him. Mrs Westforth's maid was even less helpful. Terrified by her master, she paled at the mention of the lost wedding band, and insisted that despite appearances, the politician had very much cared for his wife's well-being.

When he returned to the Yard on the end of second day, it was to find a letter on his desk, explaining that Mrs. Westforth's case was no longer any of his concern. 'A robbery gone wrong, you know how it is, Lestrade,' his superior told him sternly, when he sought out the man's office, letter in hand. As it turned out, Mr Westforth had not complained about Lestrade speaking out of turn. Which, although a great relief, was confusing. He'd been certain Mr Westforth would not miss the opportunity and great pleasure of seeing him punished for his indecency. And since Sherlock had not shown up, Lestrade was sure Mycroft had had nothing to do with his stroke of luck.

He left the Yard late that night, a strange sense of melancholy clinging to his bones despite his best efforts to shake it off. Without a case to focus on, his mind wandered. The day had left him rattled and more emotionally drained than he would have expected. At the edge of his conscience, the realization that he would have no one to confide to once he arrived home slowly took shape. There were no words of comfort to look forward to, no letters found slipped under the door or long fingers caressing his hair soothingly. It felt very much like someone had pulled the rug from underneath his feet.

The unfamiliar feeling hadn't dissipated the next morning, nor the days after. It clung to his bones and pressed steadily upon his ribcage. The more time passed, the more he'd be able to identify it as sadness. The kind that accompanied a deep, aching loss.

~oOo~

The second time Greg had laid eyes on Mycroft, years had passed and with it, memories had faded to hazy snippets of what had once been. It wasn't that Greg had forgotten the encounter in the Holmes estate completely - as if that was even possible. It had merely been pushed to the back of his mind when he'd become Sergeant and joined the Criminal Investigation Department. The new position had him face an entirely different level of pressure and stress. It was work he loved doing and had been striving towards from the very beginning, but it did not diminish the sour, bitter taste that often accompanied it.

He did not recognise him then, which - albeit Greg felt unreasonably disappointed with himself later - was to be expected. Seven years had passed after all, and even back then both had glimpsed each other for only mere seconds. Both had matured as well, shaped by the different circumstances of their lives.

Mycroft's memory, however, recalled every little detail of that night and couldn't have forgotten had he so desired. Although unaware of his name back then, he recognised Sergeant Lestrade immediately and therein, really, laid the depth of their long-lasting dilemma. For to Mycroft, he was Sergeant Lestrade before he became Gregory.

It was a Thursday, one of the rare days Lestrade found time to cross the street to the little bakery near the Yard. It bordered on St. James's Park, enabling him to enjoy his lunch while strolling through the thick greens. The fresh air and rich colours never failed to clear his head. He loved watching the squirrels chase each other from branch to branch, or feeding crumbs of his food to the ducks under the bridge. Here, sheltered from view and noise, every problem seemed solvable.

The bakery was crowded, as was usual at this time of day, and Lestrade waited patiently for his turn. With his order in hand, he squeezed his way back to the door, arms held up to protect his heavenly smelling goods and it was only after his feet had hit the pavement that he realised someone must have held it open. He turned, eyes searching the glass front before settling on the man closest to the door. Their eyes met and Lestrade smiled, thankful, before continuing towards the park. The startled gaze of the tall, suited man successfully distracted him from worrying about the gangly boy who'd stumped all over the scene of the crime this morning and caused quite some havoc.

All too soon, his bag of breadcrumbs had run dry, an Lestrade reluctantly turned back to the Yard. To his relief, his reputation had not taken a considerable blow during his lunch break. But although his superior had refrained from any form of serious punishment, he'd made clear that civilians had no place in their investigations. Lestrade nodded in agreement and assured he'd make sure such incidents would be swiftly handled in the future. However, the boy himself seemed to have a very different opinion. He returned twice in the following week and always had to be forcefully removed from the scene. Lestrade felt sympathy for him, more than he dared to let on, but it couldn't be denied that he would only hinder their investigations.

In the blink of an eye, another Thursday had come around, and with a bag of shortbread in hand, Lestrade strolled past hazelnut shrubs towards the sound of running water. The clouds had retreated during the morning and the sun shone golden through the treetops. He closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth on his face as his feet walked the familiar ground. When he opened them again, however, he was not alone anymore. On the normally empty bridge stood a man. With his dark coat tucked firmly around himself, he leaned against the railing and threw breadcrumbs into the stream. Stunned, Lestrade halted and stared at the man's back for a few seconds, before shaking off his hesitation.

The dark wood was cold and wet beneath his fingers, but Lestrade leaned onto it nonetheless. "You must have time enough when you find yourself wasting it on ducks."

The man turned and Lestrade's amused gaze was met by pale blue eyes.

"I would not call it a waste at all. A bit of bread in return for a moment of peace seems a fair trade, do you not agree?"

With a smile Lestrade held out his hand. "Greg Lestrade, pleasure to meet you."

The stranger shook his hand, his fingers cold against Lestrade's skin. "Mycroft," the man said, and after a short pause added, "Mycroft Werder."

Lestrade did wonder about the moment of hesitation, but did not think much of it when he pulled out his bag of breadcrumbs and focused his attention on the ducks beneath them. And upon exiting the park 20 minutes later, he'd already forgotten.

It would come to Greg much later, when their association had blossomed to friendship, but the truth had not yet been revealed. Meetings on the bridge had turned into long walks through the park, which had eventually been accompanied by quiet conversations sitting in cafés. The lies hung between them still, unnoticed by Greg and feared by Mycroft.

"I saw you," Greg said, suddenly, as they strolled one day along the lakeside. The wind had turned and carried over the sweet smell of pastries and cake.

"At the bakery." Greg nodded, the memory taking shape in his head. "You held the door for me." He smiled and briefly squeezed Mycroft's arm in thanks and affection. "What a coincidence."

Face angled away from his friend's delighted gaze, Mycroft smiled bitterly. "What a coincidence indeed."


	10. The Distance Between Us

**The Distance Between Us**

"Time is strange. It doesn't always help. Or heal. Sometimes it just passes."  
\- Ash Parsons-Still Waters

 _September_

 _(3 weeks later)_

Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months, but the steady pressure in Lestrade's chest did not dissipate. It lay there, never changing, never leaving.

The Westforth case had been closed despite Greg's efforts to prove robbery had not been the motive. Sherlock's reaction had been a subdued one, simply because he cared more about solving the crime than bringing the criminals to justice. Greg, on the other hand, couldn't get the case out of his mind. It kept nagging at the edge of his consciousness, even as other cases occupied his desk.

There was a break-in in one of the old family homes which made up a good portion of the House of Lords, Greg was sure it had been appointed to him as punishment for his unwanted prying into the Westforth case. It was resolved rather quickly and with an astonishing lack of fuss, though. The owners of the estate, quite demanding and outraged upon Greg's first visit, had insisted nothing that had been stolen couldn't be replaced when he returned the morning after and refused any further investigations.

More often than not, Greg found himself unable to sleep at night, his mind too occupied to accept rest. In those moments he liked to close his eyes and imagine slender fingers caressing over his brow and into his hair. The fantasy offered comfort and lulled him into sleep, eventually turning into such a realistic dream, that when the sun rose, and he awoke he was left feeling restless and empty.

When even this didn't help soothe his worries one night, Greg drew back the covers and planted his feet on the cool floor. He blindly searched for the box of matches and in the dim candle light padded into the kitchen. There was a hidden compartment [in the space] between the small hearth and the workbench. With practised ease Greg opened it, having sought out what lay within regularly since it had first been placed there, and took out the non-descript leather bundle. The ring was comfortingly rough beneath his touch and Greg twirled it between his fingers a few times, watching the light reflect on its irregular surface, before threading it on a sturdy metal cord. He fastened it around his neck, double checking the knot just in case, and went back to bed. Sleep, when it finally came, was peaceful.

He did not take the ring off the following night, nor the days after. Instead it rested safe beneath the rough material of his shirt, hidden from prying eyes, and provided a comforting pressure against the soft skin of his chest. Not necessarily erasing, but taking the edge off the ache which had already made a home there. Here, close to his heart, it belonged.

People didn't notice, not that they'd have cared much anyway.

~oOo~

In the safety of his chambers, generously appointed to him by Mr. Holmes himself, Watson sat hunched over his writing desk. With quick, practised fingers he dipped his feather into the dark ink, opened his leather-bound diary, and began to write.

A month had passed since he'd entered Holmes' service and much had not come as he'd first expected. For instance, the Holmes manor wasn't the pompous, ostentatious housing he'd pictured when being informed about his future employment. It was huge, yes, and equipped with furniture and decoration common men could only dream of. But it held an air of oldness Watson had never felt before and every corner of the house spoke of ages long past. Holmes, he found, fit into that setting as perfectly as if he'd been born right into it. Which, Watson supposed, was true. Tradition and pride, to uphold at all costs.

Despite this, Holmes remained an enigma to him, just as unreadable as when they'd first exchanged words in a carriage to London. He was proud and fair, with a sharpness to his mind that was hidden well behind silence and a hardened face. It was his intellect which Watson was most fearful of, more than anything. His mind ruled his action, just as it overruled his temper and blocked out emotion. Watson wondered if Holmes had ever had any kind of feelings and if so, whether it had been fear or revulsion that had him lock them away.

His task as a personal guard was, compared to its importance, a rather simple one. Wherever Holmes went, Watson followed, silently and without question. He assessed their surroundings, mentally prepared flight and fight strategies and blended into the background if necessary. Only Holmes' private rooms were outside of his supervision and it remained the only part of the manor Watson had never seen and only knew the floorplan of. Holmes spent comparingly little time there, since most of his work was conducted in his office or outside of the estate altogether. Some nights, Watson wasn't even sure the man sought them out at all. When the old grandfather clock stroke one, Holmes tended to relieve him with a slight nod of his head, barely glancing up from his desk, and Watson thankfully retreated to his chambers as soon as the night guard had taken his place. Whether Holmes was still there when the sun rose or had returned early, he had no right to ask and therefore, stayed silent.

What Holmes' position exactly was remained unspoken, although Watson knew the general outlay of his responsibilities. The amount of work and secrecy which it was treated with spoke for itself, not to mention the people he met with. Hushed discussions behind closed doors. Encrypted messages sent through serious-looking, intimidating couriers. Watson was no fool, he recognised combat trained men when he saw them. Of three things, he was absolutely sure. Whatever it was Holmes did, it was essential and time-consuming. And it brought a loneliness no man should have endure.

Watson wondered whether Holmes had had any choice in the responsibilities he shouldered or if others had decided for him. Or perhaps, fate had shown its hand and not given anyone a say altogether. It was a fickle thing, fate. After all, it had brought Watson where he was now. Here, and not far away on the raging battlefield. Hurting and dying, or even already dead. Who knew but fate itself.

~oOo~

After their first introduction on the bridge, Lestrade and the strange man met every Thursday in that exact same spot. Eyes trained on the stream below, they talked about whatever light topics they fancied, without ever inquiring after the other's life. And should no subject come to mind, silence was just as appreciated.

Lestrade, who first thought little of those encounters, soon found himself looking forward to them, until Thursday had become his favourite day of the week. And eventually both sought out the bridge whenever they could, always at noon, hoping to find companionship. And Lestrade could not deny the surge of joy that gripped his heart every time he glimpsed that tall, slender figure, either waiting for him or ending his wait. He wondered what this man had changed; solitude had been comforting so far. Until he realised it was not company in general he'd craved, but understanding. An open ear, someone like-minded. With this realisation, Lestrade found himself trusting enough to open up about his life. Little by little, careful not to divulge too much, too soon. They were, after all, still strangers, he reminded himself.

 _"If you do that again, I might have to take you in." Lestrade grinned._

 _"You work with the police?"_

 _"Yes," Lestrade confirmed, slightly surprised about the pride in his voice. He'd never really talked to anyone other than his colleagues about his work. To him, it was his duty, his tribute to the world in exchange for his life. But still, the spark of pride burned bright._

 _"Should I be careful what I divulge in front of you then?"_

 _A laugh, a smile. "I'm a Sergeant with the criminal investigation department. Don't worry. As long as you don't plan on murdering someone, we're fine."_

And received just in turn.

 _"Apologies for my delayed arrival, I got held up at work this morning."_

 _"Someone's been busy lately," Lestrade noted. He'd spent more lunch breaks alone than not the last two weeks, but had decided not to investigate. His curiosity, however, could not be denied._

 _His companion sighed deeply. "London never sleeps, I'm afraid."_

" _You sound like the Queen."_

 _Lestrade's teasing grin was met by pretended look of distaste. "Please, I'm merely a humble minor servant of her majesty. Barely qualified enough to make the tea."_

 _Lestrade snorted. "That sounds like the biggest understatement of the century."_

And so, a strange friendship was formed. Odd in both its origin and functioning, but working brilliantly nonetheless. Almost three months had passed and here they were still, sharing a moment of refugee on a small, little café terrace.

"You seem strangely quiet today."

Greg tore his eyes away from the smooth surface of the table and met Mycroft's gaze. He hesitated, wondering absently when he'd started mentally referring to him by his first name, then sighed.

"He turned up again, today. Racked havoc on the scene of crime."

"Who?"

"That young fellow with the ridiculous curls," Greg answered, earning himself an amused snort. "Even followed me home afterwards." They'd talked about him before, briefly.

"He seems rather persistent," Mycroft mused.

Greg smiled wryly. "He is going to cost me my employment, if he keeps doing that."

"How long has he tried now?"

"Roughly three months, I would say," Greg replied, absently worrying at his bottom lip. "In fact, if I remember correctly, he first turned up shortly before we first met."

"Have you considered giving him a chance?" Mycroft asked hesitantly, carefully settling his tea cup back on its saucer. His face was oddly controlled.

"Honestly? Yes," Greg admitted, quickly looking away at Mycroft's surprised face. "I am not sure, though." He shrugged, helpless. "Every single one of his deductions turned out to be truthful, but how could he possess such knowledge?"

"Brilliant minds often lurk in the strangest of people." There was a sad ring to his words, but Greg didn't notice.

"So he is either a genius or a pervert?" Greg asked sceptically, leaning back and crossing his arms.

"You've interacted with him quite a few times now. What do you think?"

Greg carefully pondered the question, aware he had already made up his mind. Hearing it confirmed by Mycroft, though, seemed essential. "I think he wants to help, but is not sure how to go about it. But his intentions are good, and that's all that's important."

Mycroft stared at him for a few seconds, blue eyes filled with an emotion Greg couldn't quite place. But before he could ask what was wrong, the moment was gone and Mycroft relaxed back into his chair. "Then you have your answer." He smirked. "I'll be here to console you should it go downhill though."


	11. Denial

**Denial**

"As long as you have certain desires about how it ought to be you can't see how it is."  
\- Ram Dass

 _(2 weeks later)_

 _September_

"Are you sure you do not want to take a closer look?" Lestrade enquired. "Might turn out to be more interesting than it seems." He studied the washed-out shirt of the corpse, drenched in mud from the Thames, and tried to breathe through the atrocious smell. Gulls shrieked above them. Absently, Lestrade wondered when he'd started sorting murders after their intellectual appeal.

The younger Holmes had already gathered his supplies and observed the dead man with distaste. "There's nothing interesting about a 32 year-old, slightly obese house steward who's been incapable of finding employment and lied to his wife about his daytime whereabouts so she wouldn't find out."

Lestrade stared at the corpse again, brows furrowed and lips pursed. Behind him Sherlock huffed, obviously annoyed by his lack of understanding.

"Good luck with being the bearer of bad news, thrice over, while informing his wife of the recent events."

And with that, Sherlock was gone, leaving Lestrade to stare at the river, gaze wandering up the stream until coming to rest on the distant silhouettes of towering cranes and cargo ships waiting for departure. Against the evening sun, Lestrade thought they looked rather surreal. Like distorted giants who'd risen from the ground to smother everything in their path beneath their feet.

~oOo~

Watson watched Holmes and grew accustomed to his habits. It felt strangely intimate. He watched the man work at his desk for hours and pace the wide space in front of the tall windows in his office; watched him handle negotiations or observe from the shadows. And he watched him grow quiet. Not in the literal sense since he spoke just as much, if not more, than before. But the time committed to personal discussions simply diminished while professional verbal exchanges took up more and more time. Until eventually, work was all that was left.

It almost seemed Holmes was retreating into himself further, if such a thing was even possible. But then again, perhaps physical proximity paired with mental distance had that effect on one's impression of another person.

It was six weeks before Watson had met the entire Holmes family, the younger brother being the last to cross his path. Apparently, the young man had a habit of avoiding his older brother as often as possible, even more so since the latter had taken up residence in the left wing to make room for his work. If the gossip among the servants was to be believed, they'd rather passionately disagreed upon the extension of the brother's security, ending in hateful parting words on one and silence on the other side. The elder Holmes had shown no sign of being negatively affected by the dispute, not that Watson would have expected otherwise.

'What a lively young man', the housekeeper told him, as she personally brought him his morning tea one day. Watson suspected curiosity and need for gossip had driven her to see to his needs herself. 'Always running around to solve one mystery or another.'

'And his brother, Mrs Hudson', Watson asked tentatively, gratefully accepting the offered cup and saucer, 'what does he think about his sibling's choice of occupation?'

'Hard to tell, really. It is not what he had in mind for him, I bet. But still, he carries the burden of the oldest with relief.'

'Oh,' Watson said, confused. 'How so?'

Her smile was laced with just the slightest hint of sadness. 'Could you imagine the young Holmes stuck behind a desk for the rest of his life?'

'No,' he admitted and watched her go. When it had finally cooled down enough for him to take a sip, the tea tasted stale on his tongue.

~oOo~

"Mrs Parker?" Greg asked and held up his badge to identify himself as police. The petite woman looked at it with reddened eyes, staring right through it. Behind her, Greg could hear children running down the stairs. Three, maybe four, none older than twelve. He swallowed hard, suddenly wishing he'd sent one of the constables to question her instead of insisting to go himself.

"Mrs Parker?" Greg repeated, this time to get her attention but she continued to stare at his badge with wide, unfocused eyes. It was only when he drew back his arm that she blinked and met his gaze. After dealing with so many political cases, the deep sorrow clearly visible in her eyes caught Greg off-guard. He'd almost forgotten how much people cared, how much they feared and mourned and _felt_.

"Yes, of course." Her empty voice echoed in the space between them. She stepped back from the threshold and motioned him to follow. He did so hesitantly, as three pairs of eyes followed him from their place on the stairs as he passed by the kitchen and entered the living room. Greg sat at the dining table across Mrs Parker, who in her distracted state, forgot to offer him tea. He was glad as he wasn't sure his stomach could handle it.

"You know already." It wasn't a question. Her eyes, the three scared children listening on the stairs said it all.

"News travel fast, Inspector. Especially bad ones."

There was no point in objecting, so Greg decided against using sentimental words. She was right after all. "When did you last see your husband, Mrs Parker?"

"Yesterday evening. We had to dismiss our housekeeper a few weeks ago and our youngest, Benjamin had been running a fever, so he went to do the shopping."

So Sherlock had been right about the monetary problems, except that Mrs Parker had indeed known about her husband's inability to find work.

Mrs Parker sniffled slightly, eyes shining with unshed tears, and wiped at her nose with a crumpled handkerchief. "He said he'd go to the fish market and insisted I needn't worry should he run late. He always hated fish so I have no idea what made him go there."

Greg's right hand which had steadily taken notes in a small leather-bound book stilled and he blinked. Once, twice. But whatever faint memory his subconscious had picked up on eluded his mind before he was able to properly grasp it.

"Your husband," Greg said instead as he absently tapped his pen against the white paper. "He was unable to find employment in his profession?"

"Yes. Times have been tough these past months as fewer people can afford a house steward. Many prefer to get by with a housekeeper and butler alone to save funds."

Sherlock's words echoed in Greg's ears as he watched her wipe treacherous tears from her delicate cheeks. _'Good luck with being the bearer bad news, thrice over…'_ If Sherlock was here, would he care? Or would he mercilessly demand every last bit of information until he'd solved another one of the riddles he loved so much, without a hint of sympathy or compassion? And in the end, which was better? Kindness or distance, emotion or logic? Or maybe the result was all that really mattered.

"If your husband was unemployed, how did you provide for your family?"

"Oh, though he didn't find work as house steward he wasn't unemployed," Mrs Parker objected.

' _People believe the most transparent of lies if they so badly want them to be true,'_ Sherlock's mocking, condescending voice whispered in Greg's ear, and he couldn't contain his mouth from pulling into a small, bitter smile.

"What did he do then?"

"It was a temporary position with just enough money to scrape by until another opportunity arose."

She didn't know where the money had come from, of course she didn't. He could see her mind racing, trying desperately to avoid the truth as long as possible. It was astonishing how oblivious, how blind people could be if they chose. What a brilliant but flawed protective mechanism, doomed to fail sooner or later.

When they were done, Greg pocketed his notebook and walked back through the hall and past the three pairs of eyes following his every move. Once out the front door, he wearily turned around and bid Mrs Parker farewell. He didn't meet her eyes as he thanked her for her time, too afraid of what else he might recognise in them, and then rushed out the front yard without looking back.

~oOo~

 _8 years ago_

"Forgive me, I keep rambling on about my life, it must be boring you by now."

It was true that Greg had divulged quite a lot about himself in the last couple of months. Words flowed easily when Mycroft was around him now and he enjoyed the liberty of voicing his thoughts, be it dreams or memories or fears, and having them accepted without judgement. Mycroft always listened intently and nodded along, sometimes offering words of encouragement or joining Greg in his laughter. It was clear the other man enjoyed his company and stories just as much as Greg did, but their roles were seldom reversed.

"Do not trouble yourself, please. I take great pleasure in knowing about your life."

"But you divulge little about yourself," Greg countered.

"My life is horrendously uneventful, I simply try to spare you."

Greg laughed, the carefree sound carrying far into the thicket around them and the treetops above. Almost immediately Mycroft joined with a light chuckle of his own. Greg thought he might burst from the pure joy in his chest.

"Different yes, but certainly not uneventful."

Mycroft smiled. "What do you want to know then?"

Greg pondered for a moment, an endless list of questions running through his head. Now that he'd permission to ask whatever he desired, picking one turned out to be challenging. He settled on one of the simpler ones to begin with. "I know you work a lot and barely manage to carve out some time for our lunch meetings. There must be something else you enjoy doing."

"I have indeed had a passion for books since my early childhood," Mycroft agreed. "There's little more calming than sitting in front of a fire with a good book in hand."

It was easy to picture it and Greg did so with ease. And he could understand it as well, although Mycroft had probably a much larger collection than him.

"A good spare-time activity, one I bet your parents encouraged."

"I remember that my mother used to read to me when I was little." He smiled softly, the memory obviously one he looked back on with fondness. The corners of Greg's mouth twitched in response. "It's one of the rare, calm memories of my childhood."

"All the more treasured, I suspect. How old were you?"

Mycroft hesitated. "Far too young." At Greg's questioning glance he added, "I'm afraid I was forced to leave my childhood behind at a rather early age."

It made sense, suddenly, in a sad, sobering way. Greg's heart gave a short, painful twist. "No child should be robbed of their childhood."

But Mycroft only shrugged. "Family tradition, I'm afraid. And at least it gave my brother the freedom to flourish." His last words where whispered, voice fading as if he'd not intending to divulge as much, but realising it was too late to turn back now.

"You have a brother, then?" Greg asked, curious. Mycroft had shared little to no information about his family and upbringing. Somehow, he'd always pictured him as an only child.

Mycroft nodded, not faltering in his stride. "Yes, although our relationship could not be described as easy."

Greg chuckled and plucked a few thin leaves from the lavender bushes as they strode past. "When is it ever? I have a sister, two years younger than me." He smiled fondly. "We never missed a chance to annoy each other. My mother was exasperated, but we finally made peace when I joined the force and she married." He hesitated briefly, then asked, "Your brother, what is his name?"

"William," Mycroft answered, a bit too fast, as if having anticipated the question. The tight lines on his forehead were smoothed out before Greg could take notice. "He's younger than me, seven years in fact."

"That's quite a gap."

"It is," Mycroft agreed, his smile not quite sincere. "We do not see eye to eye very often, never did. Unfortunate, but nothing that could be helped, I'm afraid."

"Must be the age. I bet he got spoiled," Greg teased.

Mycroft didn't meet his eye. "Yes…probably."

They strolled on in companionable silence, the sun peeking through the tree tops and lighting their path in strips of gold. The air was fresh and sweet with the smell of early blossoms and Greg could hear birds happily chirping above them. When they reached the end of the path both took the remaining steps to the lakefront and came to a stop on a small spot confined by the trees behind them and the lake ahead. It was here, sheltered from prying eyes and engulfed in their own, private green sphere, that Greg spoke again.

"Is there a Mrs Werder?" he asked, lulled into a false sense of familiarity between them by the newly shared personal information, and immediately regretted his question when he met Mycroft's startled gaze.

"I'm sorry?"

He swallowed thickly, heart suddenly beating in his throat. "Your brother, is he married?"

"No."

Silence settled between them, the unspoken question hanging heavily in the air. Greg did not ask it, and Mycroft did not answer, neither speaking a word for the remainder of their walk in fear one might give in.

* * *

 _Please let me know what you think. This series has turned out rather long and intricate and it'd help to know whether it makes sense outside of my head..._


	12. Sacrifices

**Sacrifices**

"You are so brave and quiet I forget you are suffering." _  
_\- Ernest Hemingway

 _(3 weeks later)_

 _October_

Lestrade's steps echoed off the damp walls as he proceeded down the corridor to the holding cells of Scotland Yard. He paused before a heavy door and steeled himself for the exhausting and without a doubt fruitless lecture he'd recounted far too many times already. One would think it would've sunk in by now, but apparently, the greater the mind the more stubborn the person. Maybe Lestrade should just forget to turn up next time, that would teach him a lesson.

Or it'll just egg him on further, he thought wearily, and turned the key.

"What was it this time?"

Sherlock brushed past him with a petulant stare. "As if you didn't gossip about my incarceration with the duty officer while fetching the keys."

"Theft? Seriously?" Lestrade called after him, hurrying to secure the door before following the detective down the corridor. His shoes thumped dully on the cold, wet floor of the Yard's basement.

"It was for a case." Sherlock's voice floated back, annoyance so clear in his voice Lestrade could picture the scowl on his sharp face. He barely managed to catch up with him before they reached the staircase and grabbed his arm.

"And what would this case be? You've not taken interest in even a single one of my cases over the last month." First baffled by the detective's lack of acknowledgement when it came to his cases, Lestrade had soon reminded himself honest police work wasn't very high on Sherlock's agenda. And while his desk had been overflowing with cases, even he had to admit they had been rather lacking in excitement and abnormality. Although that hadn't necessarily made solving them less difficult.

Sherlock stared at the strong hand holding him back, offended. "It is hardly my fault your interrogation room has been flooded with politicians lately."

Lestrade stared at him, baffled this was the reason why. "What? You discarded them because they had a political aspect?"

"I have no interest in politics. It is not my area." He brushed off Lestrade's arm and turned back to the staircase. "I leave the boring stuff to my brother."

Anger flashed through Lestrade, burning hot and bright for a second. Anger at Sherlock's ignorance, his lack of compassion and endless arrogance. Anger at the people committing those crimes. Anger at himself for seeking out Sherlock again and again. Crimes weren't supposed to be fun, they weren't a free-time activity to pursue whenever it took one's fancy. He wanted to pull Sherlock back and box his ears, wanted to rage and defend his brother. Mycroft worked hard and long to keep people safe, to uphold at least an illusion of peace. He'd sacrificed much for it too, more than Sherlock would ever be able to understand.

He thumped up the stairs, feet hitting the steps hard, as if the very source of the confusing, overwhelming mess of emotions raging in Lestrade's heart lay beneath. But as soon as he reached the top, his anger washed away by the mercilessness of reality like a hut in a hurricane. It left nothing in its wake but a gaping emptiness which settled cold around his heart.

Sherlock, for all his brilliance, was oblivious to Lestrade's inner turmoil. Proud and smug he awaited the other man on the pavement before the building, leaning casually against the grey façade. "I've found something much more interesting to occupy my mind," he said as soon as Lestrade had stepped through the door and onto the street. "Thank me later, please, when I have once again saved you and your excuse of a police service from embarrassment."

Yet again Sherlock set off down the street and yet again, Lestrade followed. "You insulted the port authority officer and then proceeded to steal one of the logbooks."

"I needed detailed information on a small cargo-ship which had landed several days ago and he was not cooperating."

"It's his right to deny you access to cargo information."

"Who cares." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and then dug into an alleyway to their right.

The smell of foul eggs and excrement filled Lestrade's nose, as he struggled to both keep up and avoid slipping. From the street they'd just left the sound of a horse defying its owner's will floated back and echoed off the narrow walls. A rat barely escaped being extinguished by his shoe. Somewhere above them, a woman screamed. Before Lestrade had time to consider whether out of anger or anguish, and what to do about it, they already had burst out of the alley and onto what seemed to be a small market. The sweet smell of pastries and bread replaced the stench of the alleyway, the change so sudden Lestrade felt dizzy for a moment. His heart gave a short, painful twist in his chest. Nausea washed over him and he was convinced he'd be sick, but then Sherlock slowed down and guided him out of the throng of people towards the other end of the square.

"What is it then, that's interesting enough to have been blessed with your attention?" Lestrade asked, once his stomach had settled again, right hand absently massaging his chest.

"I'll tell you when I think you will prove useful."

"I beg your pardon?" Baffled, but not really surprised, Lestrade just stared at Sherlock's amused face, coldness expanding in his chest.

"Have a boring day, Inspector."

And just like that, Lestrade was left standing in the middle of the street, again dragged away from his work and used by Sherlock's whim. Two fishermen brushed past him. A fishmonger called out from the top of his cart. Near the entrance to a butcher's shop a lone beggar sat slumped against the wall. Standing in the middle of the crowd, alone in an entirely different way, Lestrade felt naked beneath the disinterested stares of those around him. Resigned, he finally turned around to find a cab back to the yard, feeling distantly foolish, but too numb to truly care.

~oOo~

As so many times before, Holmes stood silently before the wide windows of his study, staring at the green garden beyond. Watson could tell that his gaze wasn't fixed on anything in particular and if it was, he doubted Holmes would even notice the elegantly cut rose bushes or carefully selected and planted variety of flowers. It was a beautiful, well-maintained garden in its full blossom, perfect for a calming evening stroll or a cup of tea beneath the roof of the outdoor pavilion. Holmes had not once set foot in it since Watson had been here.

"Dr. Watson."

The words, although said quietly, echoed through the room. Since that first conversation in the carriage, Holmes had not addressed him directly and the ease with which he did now startled Watson. The silence between them, comfortingly familiar as time had passed and an unspoken part of their working relationship, was suddenly gone. Caught off guard, Watson froze in his already still position by the door.

"Yes, Sir?"

"You are a Doctor, are you not?" He didn't turn around, gaze still fixed straight ahead.

"Yes, Sir." Holmes knew this, had even asked about it when they first met. He loathed repeated conversations, so why he had decided to do so now eluded Watson.

"You have seen battle, faced life-threatening danger and survived." It wasn't a question, but a statement. "You have seen the world at its ugliest, and yet you are here."

There was neither admiration nor degradation in his tone, nothing at all to give away his thoughts. His facial expression was set like lines on stone, carefully crafted and ancient. Not an ounce of emotion. He had perfected a mask of casual indifference so great, no one could look past and nothing could escape. A barrier between Holmes and the people he sought to protect. A flawless isolation from the world; a complete isolation of the mind. Watson shivered involuntarily.

"You have met my brother, I presume?"

"Only briefly, Sir."

"What did you think of him?"

Unsure how honest an answer Holmes was expecting, Watson hesitated. Then again, he was a man of facts and would not appreciate receiving anything but the truth. "He seems very passionate about his chosen profession, although blind to the social aspects of his work."

Holmes nodded. "My brother doesn't understand the restrictions society forces upon him. He never has."

Silence settled between them again and Holmes made no move to break it. Whatever his intentions, it seemed he'd gained his answer. None the wiser, Watson remained beside the door, waiting.

~oOo~

 _8 years ago_

Mycroft's hand was a warm, reassuring weight on his shoulder, as Greg's body shook beneath it. Small tremors ran through his body and didn't stop no matter how much he tried to rain them in. Hunched forward where he sat on the bench, head trapped between his knees and hands folded above, Greg waited for the rush of emotions to subside. Mycroft said nothing and simply rubbed small circles into the tense shoulder muscles. Greg focused on it until the tight grip squeezing his lungs had disappeared.

"I'm sorry," he apologised, voice still muffled between his knees. "This is surely not how I'd intended our meeting to go."

Although Greg couldn't see it, Mycroft shook his head. "There's nothing to apologise for." His fingers hadn't stilled their circular motion over the other man's clothes.

Greg remained with his head down for a few more moments until he'd composed himself. The entire situation was clearly embarrassing for him, as he turned his face away when he finally emerged. He wiped his face with his hand to erase any trace of the tears which had treacherously fallen despite his best efforts to stop them.

"It is taxing at times," Greg tried to explain, voice relatively normal again. But he couldn't hide the sadness in his eyes when he finally turned to face his companion. "Comes with the work, I'm afraid. Nothing one can do."

"I'm sorry." Mycroft himself seemed to be surprised by the compassion in his words. His eyes fell on his free hand which had glided over his own legs towards the other man's knee and abruptly aborted the motion, startled. Fingers flexed for a moment, then the hand returned to its position on the bench beside Mycroft, tense knuckles unnaturally white against the dark wood.

"Would it help perhaps, if you talked about it? Shared whatever burdens your conscience?"

"Murders are never easy, especially those committed in rage. But today –," Greg paused, gaze fix straight ahead. "It is not unusual that the crime stays in the family. Hate, envy…love. Physical abuse is all too often the consequence of suppressed emotion. But this, today." He took a deep, shuddering breath and rubbed his hand over his face again.

"They were so young." He screwed his eyes shut, as if it would block out the terrible sight forever branded into his brain. "I couldn't…"

"It wasn't your fault," Mycroft reassured him again, "There was nothing you could have done to prevent it."

They sat and waited until Greg's shaking had stopped, both drawing comfort from the other's presence. If Mycroft was aware of his hand still resting on his companion's shoulder long after they'd moved on to lighter topics, he didn't acknowledge it. And if Greg soaked up the touch with every fibre of his being and let it resonate warmth in his heart over the next week, who was there to judge but he himself.

~oOo~

Three days, that's how long Watson waited and watched Holmes stare out the window between pressing work tasks. It wasn't some form of break, since Holmes' brain never stopped working, but a simple change of positions. Watson tried to imagine the amount of problems being weighed and solved in that mind every day, but couldn't even count the number of documents and letters Holmes had signed today. What must it be like to be so isolated by intelligence alone?

"A very beautiful garden you have here, Mr Holmes."

Holmes blinked, eyes focusing on the scenery beneath with the barest hint of curiosity, as if truly seeing it for the first time. His head leaned slightly to the right as he considered its appearance. "It is rather beautiful indeed, if one spends time on appreciating beauty which has no purpose."

"Yet I have never seen you set foot in it," Watson said, glad Holmes hadn't berated him for addressing him and daring to stir the conversation further. The sudden need to express understanding, to ease the tight lines on Holmes back had become unbearable. "I imagine the clear air and natural sounds help order one's thoughts when the rest of the body is occupied with walking."

"It is the illusion of quiet that encourages the heart to settle, leaving the mind to flourish in peace. One does not need a real garden to accomplish such a state. The memory of one suffices just as well."

"The memory, Sir?"

"St. James' Park has a lakefront lined by meadows just like those throwing shade over the sidewalk to the east entrance. If you walk on the side of the trees facing the lake you cannot hear passers-by from either side, since both the water and the wind in the tree tops drown out the voices. In late spring when the greenery is thick enough, it poses the perfect shelter."

Watson blinked, unable to interpret what he'd just heard. But before his brain had been able to fully process the words, Holmes turned slightly. There was a rigidness to his back that hadn't been as prominent before.

"I have observed you closely over the last few days and decided to change your assignment."

"Sir?" A small surge of unease cursed through Watson, afraid he might have overstepped after all. "Have I not fulfilled your expectations?"

"That is not the concern. I would simply like to assign you to my brother, as personal guard and aide in social dealings."

"May I ask, Sir, what has prompted you to entertain such measures?" Although Holmes' face was turned away from him, Watson could sense his hesitation. "If I am to protect the young Mr Holmes, it'll be of great advantage should I be familiar with the dangers which prompted my reassignment."

"There have been rumours that someone strives to do damage to the Holmes family. Just whispered words passed on behind glasses of champagne and drunken smiles. Nothing you should be overly concerned with." Watson was almost convinced by the casual indifference in his voice. "But I would prefer to be sure nonetheless, and could rest easier at night should I know my brother in trustworthy hands."

Watson didn't comment that Holmes barely slept as it was.

"It would be my honour, Sir."

Holmes gave a short, dry laugh, the first real emotional reaction Watson witnessed him express, and turned his unfocused gaze back to the windows.

"Good luck."


	13. Responsibilities

_A/N: I realised the timeline I've created might have been open to misinterpretation in the last couple of chapters. I've gone back and added time stamps for the scenes which are flashbacks/set in the past. To be clear, Mycroft and Greg haven't seen each other since 'Ink and Paper' ! Greg merely recalls how they first met and fell in love._

* * *

 **Responsibilities**

"He was living, only as he knew how, and as we have forced him to live."  
\- Richard Wright, Native Son

 _(2 days later)_

 _October_

Whispered words were passed from guest to guest. Retellings of rumours, less than half-laced with truth, went like wildfire through the crowd. There was nothing as exciting, as exhilarating as the oddities and shortcomings of others, no matter how true. And if the propagation of such was of a hurtful nature to the person they concerned, it was a sacrifice done in the name of defeating the boredom which would encompass the rich gathering otherwise. Wine had done its part in loosening the tongues and lower what little inhibition remained.

Watson had not anticipated his last day in Mr Holmes' direct employment would open his eyes to the ruthless ignorance of the upper class. Disgusted, he turned his sharp gaze away from the group of young women tattling beside him and began his round through the ball room. His feet had barely carried him away from the double doors and past the first set of tables on the east side, when a gruff voice caught his attention. Or rather the words spoken by said voice.

"Has there been _any_ sign of interest on his side whatsoever?"

There was no missing the animosity in every word. Alarmed, Watson froze, then turned to the side, pretending to pay attention to the conversation between the group of men beside him while he listened intently. When the opportunity arose, his keen eyes sought out the company of suited, elder gentlemen sharing a table a few feet away from him.

"Not that anyone knows of," one of the men replied, twirling a nearly empty wine glass between his fingers. His small eyes were framed by a pair of round glasses. "And not for lack of effort on the female side. Half the ladies in this very room are here solely to charm his mind and deplete his inheritance."

"There is little else to draw them in but money," another added. He grinned contemptuously and deliberately traced the bridge of his nose with a wrinkled finger. "Certainly not those looks of his."

The group laughed, food and drink forgotten for a moment. Watson's hands curled into fists as he barely managed to contain himself. It wasn't hard to fathom whom their vicious mocking was directed at, as was most of the rumours and gossip which were doing their rounds tonight. He'd blame it on envy, but couldn't help but admit that at least one undeniable truth had been addressed which had come to his attention before. Mr. Holmes was indeed lacking a spouse, a fact which had been remarked upon by a handful of people during his employment, and not in a favourable way.

"One could wonder whether his desires do not lie with the female body at all but are of a more…" The spectacled man paused and carefully traced the rim of his plate with his forefinger. "…queer nature."

"Apparently his bachelorhood has been reason for disapproval lately," his neighbour remarked.

"Not to mention the circles he insists moving in, look how he talks to Mr Ledford's daughter."

Heads turned and Watson followed the example, gaze gliding over the tables before him to the crowd lining the dance area, a wide, oval space a third the size of the entire room. Placed right in the centre, the view remained mainly unobstructed and Watson could clearly distinguish the tall form of Mr Holmes amongst the onlookers. Beside him stood a woman clad in a long green dress, her dark hair elegantly pinned up to expose her neck. They seemed to converse rather intimately, the space between them just enough to avoid eavesdropping without being improper. Watson had seen her before, usually in the company of her father when Mr Holmes required his advice. Watson himself had wondered about her presence, but decided not to question matters which did not concern him. The few words he'd heard her voice had been sharp and intricate, hinting at an intellect superior to many here today. Thus, Holmes judging her a suitable conversationalist wasn't surprising.

"It is scandalous enough that she accompanies her father on his business journeys, but to encourage her in her political interest!" An approving murmur went through the group. "Thirty years old, and no intention to find a husband. With that cocky attitude of hers, she would be hard pressed to convince a low butcher to show her mercy. Poverty will overcome her once her father shuffles off his mortal coil."

A sharp intake of breath disrupted the man and all heads whipped around again, the story forgotten over the new couple which had just joined those already dancing over the parquet. Watson watched them elegantly navigate through the crowd, then remembered his duties and swiftly continued his walk at the edge of the room. The derisive comments continued, the couple now the main interest of the crowd, but Watson just smiled and paid them no heed.

~oOo~

As Lestrade entered his office, the first thing he noticed was the mess of files and loose papers on his desk. That in itself wasn't unusual, but the square sheet of parchment deliberately placed in a spot cleared for exactly that purpose was. Curious, but with a sense of premonition, Lestrade rounded his desk and turned the note over. He barely had time to frown before the door opened and Inspector Dimmock burst into his office.

Lestrade looked up. "Murder?"

"Kidnapping," Dimmock replied. "A judge's daughter has been found missing this morning."

Lestrade hesitated, gaze falling back to the note on his desk.

 _Assistance required immediately.  
_ _Lives at stake._ _Hurry. Please._

Sherlock never said please and so Lestrade sent Dimmock off alone and instead took a cab to the address written beneath what sounded suspiciously like an honest cry for help.

Unfortunately, Sherlock knew very well he never said please. And Lestrade could already guess he'd yet again been tricked once his eyes fell on the slender form of Sherlock, casually leaning against a street lamp, with his hands deep in his coat pockets. However, as Lestrade mournfully watched the cab driver disappear around the corner, he couldn't find it in him to be angry. Acceptance throbbed hollow in his chest.

"I need a few coins." Lestrade stared at his outstretched hand, defiant, then gave in and pulled out his purse. He deposited a few shilling in the detective's hand, who promptly crossed the street to a bakery and bought two pasties.

With practiced patience, Lestrade watched him wolf down the food. "I thought lives are at stake?"

"I was hungry and bored. That usually means at least two lives are in danger of being eradicated." He shrugged. "Besides, my life easily counts as two."

"I do have police duties, you do realise that, do you not?" Sherlock scoffed condescendingly. He stopped a passing cab, handed the driver a piece of paper and beckoned Lestrade to enter.

As they sat opposite in the small space, Lestrade had the chance to closely observe the other man, something he'd not been able to for a long time. Sherlock was always in motion; hands gesticulating about, legs never truly still and his face mostly obscured by one insulting expression after another. Now forced to confine himself to the limited space around him, Lestrade could see his fidgeting was unfocused, eyes darting about without purpose. Whatever problem it was Sherlock was disentangling in his head, it was eating away at him.

"What happened to your endless amounts of family money?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

"It is of paramount importance that my unusual dealings remain unnoticed."

"And eating counts as 'unusual'?"

There it was again, that familiar sneer. Lestrade breathed a barely audible sigh of relief. "Obviously not, I simply misplaced my wallet."

"Please tell me you did not call me out here to empty my purse."

Sherlock made a waving motion with his hand, as if the mere notion was ridiculous. "Of course not, I need you to acquire me access to the restricted laboratory at St. Bart's and a handful of special chemicals which I have listed here." He pulled a sheet of paper from his coat pocket and held it out. Lestrade took it, just as the carriage came to a sudden halt.

"Where are we?" he asked, pocketing the note without reading it. But the quick glance out of the window proved unnecessary. With a sigh, he bowed to his fate. "Do not dare leave while I am in there."

Sherlock's smirk said it all. "Inspector, whatever do you think of me?"

The building loomed tall and grey before him as Lestrade exited the carriage. It blocked out the sun, now almost at its highest and left the entrance doors in deep shadow. He'd never had any particular feelings regarding St. Bartholomew's Hospital, nor had visits to the morgue bothered him much. But ever since Mr. Westforth's wife's murder, his view had shifted ever so slightly. The change had first been noticed by himself as the autopsy of Mr. Parker had called for his presence, but he'd not been aware of the reasons until court required him to recall the details of an especially gruesome homicide of an entire family. The jury had listened with passive boredom as he described the mutilated bodies of the children, picking at their nails and stifling yawns, while the claimant's seats remained empty. Lestrade suddenly saw it then, the self-serving, egoistic motivations he'd ignored until this day. Too ignorant to see it before and too much part of the insentient society himself. The anger and powerlessness which followed felt like it encompassed not only his own, but that which everyone else was lacking.

Distance, he'd reminded himself later, as he stared at the ceiling above his bed, cheeks wet and hands clutching the blanket tight between his fingers. Distance. But visits to the morgue had remained a hardship ever since, the medical apathy with which the examiner reported his discoveries causing bile to rise in his throat. Nauseated, not by open flesh, but the ordinariness of such cruelty and the indifference with which it was accepted.

"Inspector Lestrade, I need to speak to Dr. Hooper?"

The gatekeeper eyed him over an edition of today's newspaper. He took a long look at Lestrade's identity card, then waved him through without much of a fuss. The corridor opened up bleak and white before him, identical doors breaking the white wallpaper pattern in arrhythmic intervals. Lestrade bypassed them all and instead took the stairs to the underground level, eyes watering as his nose stung with the smell of disinfectant and various chemicals that lay heavy in the air. A single door loomed ahead and he knocked cautiously.

The door opened and he was met by a pair of annoyed eyes. "Are you aware of the time, Inspector?"

Dr. Hooper glared at him, one hand pushing the door open, the other holding a bloodied cloth. He looked tired despite the relatively early hour, white lab coat already wrinkled and stained with fluid Lestrade would rather not enquire further about. He appeared neck deep in an autopsy which meant Lestrade had no actual reason to be here and certainly none valid enough to disrupt without notice.

"Yes, I am well aware, but I assure you this matter is of great urgency," he said, hoping his words sounded more sincere than they felt, and extracted the note from his pocket. "I need unrestricted and exclusive access to the restricted laboratory as soon as possible, as well as a series of compounds from the chemical storage."

Dr. Hooper studied the list, brows furrowed. "This is quite an unusual mixture. Do you plan on poisoning half the city?"

Lestrade shrugged, hoping to appear nonchalant and wishing he'd have at least taken a glance at the list. "Not exactly my area of expertise."

Dr. Hooper considered for a bit, absently twirling the paper between his fingers. Lestrade couldn't read his expression since he was at least a head shorter than himself, the ever present height difference an apparent source of constant annoyance for the other man.

"You do realise I am not the director of this facility, Inspector?"

"Prof. Farrell does not think very highly of me. I would prefer to not tempt his mood."

He studied him closely, then sighed. "Very well, I shall see to it."

~oOo~

Sitting bent over the new desk in his new quarters, Watson found himself at a total loss at what to write. Or rather, where to begin. His diary lay open before him, almost taunting, but he couldn't possibly form into words the personality of the man he'd encountered today. Sherlock Holmes was infuriating and fascinating, both annoying and refreshingly entertaining. The boldness with which he confronted people and constantly questioned everything around him was like a much needed breath of clean air after the falseness of the upper class. It felt like the adrenaline of the day had burnt through Watson's body, living him exhausted, but so incredibly full of what could only be described as a zest for life. This, he thought, he could get addicted to all too easily.

~oOo~

 _8 years ago_

Head bowed, hands clasped tightly in front him, Greg watched as the coffin was lowered into the ground. Ann was sobbing quietly beside him, her slight frame nearly disappearing in the crape of her dress. Timothy lay still in the crook of her arm, far too small to understand what he'd lost. His mother clung to him like a lifeline, while he surveyed the crowd with huge, innocent eyes, so much like those of the man who was now covered with shovel after shovel of earth. When the last corner of the coffin disappeared from sight, Marie let go of her mother's hand and buried her face in her uncle's trousers. Her tiny hands gripped tight, nails digging into the sensitive skin of his thigh. Greg welcomed the sharp pain that raced up his leg. It held the tears at bay that threatened to break free in a burst of undignified sobs, leaving rage to boil in his chest.

But that, too, evaporated when he felt the dampness against his thigh.

"It will be alight, Marie." He slowly caressed her blonde locks. "I promise."

She didn't let go of him for the remainder of the ceremony and Greg kept her shielded against him from the prying eyes of family, friends and those who called themselves such. When the grave had been refilled and the crowd began to disperse, Greg gently coaxed Marie to relent her grip and follow her mother out of the cemetery. His eyes wandered over the grave one last time, before he too turned, and willed his aching limbs to move.

All in all, it was a decent funeral for an equally decent, if not outstanding man. And it was far grander than Ann should have been able to afford.

The gravestone had long become indistinguishable between the rows of grey behind him, when Greg spotted the tall man lingering in the shadow of a tomb a safe distance off the path. Their eyes met and something in Greg's chest loosened. He breathed in the fresh smell of grass and rain, as the weight which had been crushing his lungs for the last four days disappeared. His feet moved of their own accord.

When they stood finally face to face, words did not come. His eyes wandered over the black suit, down to the polished shoes and came to rest on the bouquet of white tulips in the other man's hand. He stared at it for a long time, throat tight with all the things he longed to say. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse.

"Thank you."

"It was an honour," Mycroft said simply, face still but arms opening in a silent gesture of understanding. Greg fell into the embrace without hesitation, the indecency of the action lost between the silence of the gravestones. From somewhere beyond the gate the sound of hooves drifted over as the small procession took their leave.

~oOo~

 _(two week later)_

 _November_

Lestrade should have suspected something was off. Should have demanded answers and for Sherlock to stop withholding information he clearly possessed. But hope had bloomed foolishly in his chest when the knock had sounded, too late to be a formal visitor. And it had been so long, so terribly, painfully long. Over five months, gone by without a glimpse of his beloved's smile, without hearing his voice, without feeling the touch of his fingers. Thus, as he opened the door to his small apartment at eight in the evening, his thoughts were still far away.

He eyed the two men standing on his doorstep wearily, only one of them familiar. "Who is that?"

Sherlock stood still for a second, eyes taking in Lestrade's unusually casual attire and then skipping to the dark, bleak apartment behind him. Before any real expression could settle on his sharp face, he'd caught himself and turned to his companion with a slight sneer. "My watch dog, apparently."

"Excuse me?" Lestrade inquired.

Sherlock grimaced, obviously offended by so much idiocy, and didn't elaborate. The man in question hesitated, then held out his hand.

"Doctor Watson, pleased to meet you –,"

"Inspector Lestrade." They shook hands, both effectively ignoring the awkwardness of the situation.

"I appear to be his social aide, to prevent future incarcerations and severe violations of social etiquette."

"Oh, right," Lestrade nodded, brows furrowed as he contemplated that information. There was only one man who would have commanded such measures to be taken and he would not have done so lightly. An uneasy feeling settled in his stomach.

"If you are done exchanging unnecessary pleasantries, I would very much like to proceed now," Sherlock grumbled, staring pointedly at Lestrade's clothes.

A silent staring match later, Lestrade stepped back into his flat with a defeated sigh. He closed the door, quickly shed his robe and proceeded to shuffle through the contents of his latest case file sprawled over the kitchen table. Beneath the black and white photograph of a grey-haired man in a lab coat, the letters 'LICR' written beneath, he uncovered his badge. Back in the bedroom Lestrade quickly pulled on his work clothes, carefully readjusted the cord around his neck and then returned to the front door, snatching his coat from where he'd deposited it on the armchair earlier on his way.

"Where exactly are we going?" Lestrade asked, glaring at Sherlock and his companion sitting opposite him. The carriage did little to shield them from the chill of the autumn air and he huddled further into his coat. Street light filtered through the windows, shadows moving back and forth as they progressed down the street.

"Collecting information," Sherlock simply answered, not elaborating any further.

Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock, it is eight in the evening."

"I do not see how that would render my request superfluous."

"Normal people tend to be at home at this time of day."

"Are you putting _people's_ comfort over the safety of this city?" Sherlock sneered. He fixed him with a challenging gaze, daring him to disagree.

"No, of course not," Lestrade said, defeated. He looked at Dr. Watson, but the man just shrugged. Wherever it was they were going, Sherlock hadn't filled him in. Nonetheless, Watson didn't seem perturbed and Sherlock, to Lestrade's great amazement, didn't appear like the other man's presence beside him bothered him much. Despite their obvious recent partnership, there was an ease between them which hinted at a great future potential. Watson might, perhaps, even provide the much needed stability Sherlock's life had been lacking for as long as Lestrade could remember. Hope rose treacherously in his chest, accompanied by a stab of forbidden jealously.

"As you so often like to unnecessarily remind me, you are an Inspector with the Yard. Crime solving is what you strive to do, is it not?"

Lestrade pulled his coat just a tad tighter and said nothing, gaze fixed on the pool of swirling light beyond the window. His hands gripped the wool of his coat, knuckles white with effort, as he desperately tried to quell their shaking.

* * *

 _Please leave a comment, they are like hot chocolate on a rainy day ❤_


	14. In Free Fall

**In Free Fall**

"A strange thing, words. Once they're said, it's hard to imagine they're untrue." _  
_ _\- Perfect ruin_ by Lauren Destefano

 _8 years ago_

The night everything changed, it rained. Thick, heavy drops, that splattered loudly against Greg's windows and threatened to leak through the seals. Wind whistled through the cracks. The clouds blocked out the stars, dipping the world outside in complete darkness. Even the feeble gaslights on the street beneath stood defeated by the heavy curtain of water mercilessly drowning everything in its path. Light and noise equally. Greg's eyes wandered over the stash of loose papers and reports on his kitchen table and out the window, staring blindly at the nothingness beyond. The longer he looked, the fewer he actually saw, and soon his mind conjured wild, swirling images that blurred and disappeared before fully taking shape. His ears had adapted to the noise of the rain and lowered his senses for any other sound. It was deafness without silence. And for a brief moment, Greg feared he might never hear anything else again, then wondered if that was, perhaps, kinder. If a woman was stabbed to death beneath his window, he doubted he'd hear her scream.

It was a perfect night for a crime, a perfect night for a miracle.

The sound was so soft, so far away; Greg first thought he'd imagined it. But as he tore his gaze away from the black void outside his window, the erratic tapping was still there. It echoed through the flat and in his head, drawing him out of the trance he'd fallen into. Only when he'd laid down his pen and turned his head towards the kitchen door did he realise it came from the hallway. Someone was knocking on his front door. Startled, Greg leaped out of his seat, the image of a stabbed woman bleeding to death on the cobblestone vivid before his inner eye.

But it wasn't a woman that fell over his threshold, and it wasn't blood that dripped on the thin, worn-out carpet. Instead, Mycroft stood before him, breathing heavily and dripping water everywhere. His hair was dry, but messed up from the coat he'd pulled over his neck and head. Greg had never seen him so dishevelled. In fact, he'd never been anything less than perfectly composed with his impeccable suits and combed hair. Greg's heart soared and he was glad he wasn't deaf. It would have been unbearable, never hearing Mycroft's voice again.

" _Gregory…"_ was all Mycroft managed to say, the word falling from his lips in a breathless rush of utter relief.

Never had his name been spoken with so much emotion, yet Greg could not comprehend any of it, his heart picking up speed at the other man's distress. He reached forward to urgently take off Mycroft's heavy coat, too worried to care about of how wrong, how far out of their usual routine the entire situation was. Mycroft followed blindly, still too in shock to form words. Greg wanted to touch him, to soothe him, anything to chase that hunted look from his eyes.

"I thought…" Mycroft's breath hitched, his hands clenched tight at his side. He looked so lost in the small, empty space that was Greg's hallway, eyes wide with fear and relief. "There was a rumour that an Inspector had been killed because of a civilian interfering with the investigation and I…"

He shook his head and pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes, willing the images away that were no doubt assaulting his mind. His shoulders twitched once, twice, and he suppressed a sob that fought its way past his lips nonetheless, raw and painful. Without thought, Greg reached for Mycroft's hands and gently pried them away from his face, the need to comfort him unbearable. Mycroft let him and gripped his hands tightly in return, as if to reassure himself that the flesh beneath his fingertips was indeed warm and alive and not floating dead on the bottom of the Thames.

"Then you did not immediately open the door and…" Before Mycroft could finish that thought, Greg tugged him forward into an embrace, strong arms holding him tight against his chest. He didn't ask how Mycroft had caught wind of the incident, or how he'd acquired his address.

"Shhhh." Greg's fingers gently rubbed up and down the other man's back. Warmth pooled in his belly, spreading out and curling around his heart, pressing against his throat. The pressure built and built until it spilled over in a wave of tenderness that flooded through his limbs and guided his hands up into Mycroft's soft hair. The short strands tingled pleasantly and the skin felt soft and warm beneath his fingers. It was the first time Greg touched Mycroft barring his hands and he couldn't help the soft sigh that escaped his lips.

Mycroft's grip tightened around the warm wool between his fingers. Slowly, unconsciously, he raised his head until their foreheads touched. They remained like this, eyes closed and breathing the same air, lost in the intimacy of their closeness. Before Greg had fully comprehended what he was doing, Mycroft shied away abruptly.

"I should go," he gasped, confused, eyes looking anywhere but Greg's face. "I shouldn't…"

And before Greg had any chance to respond, Mycroft had disappeared through the door. It fell closed with a soft click and Greg stood, stunned, fingers touching his lips where he could still feel the warmth of an almost touch tingling under his skin.

~oOo~

 _November_

Their destination, as it turned out half an hour later, was a residential building of King's College. It was a tall, bulky building, surrounded by a green yard that was suspended in darkness. The only light came from three windows that were occupied despite the lateness of the hour.

Opposite Lestrade, Sherlock rubbed his hands with suppressed glee. "Prepare yourself, Inspector, you have a suspect to interview."

"Who is he?" Lestrade asked, eyes watching Sherlock rearrange his scarf and straighten his coat. Watson had yet to move from where he sat frozen.

"Oh, just a small piece of the puzzle I have been figuring out for the past couple of weeks."

"Still harassing the lab then?" Lestrade frowned. Weeks had passed since the permission had been granted and he would have expected Sherlock to conclude his experiments long before. He looked at Dr Watson, but the man made a great effort to avoid his gaze.

Sherlock stilled in his movement, looking almost offended. "It is not harassment if they profit from my research. Besides, you were surprisingly successful in acquiring a secluded work-space. Not even Prof Farrell seems to know of my doings."

Leaning forward in his seat slightly, Sherlock checked his pockets, nodded and then turned to Watson, who replied with a casual pad with his hands against his coat. Lestrade nearly dismissed it, but then recognised the shape of what exactly it was that Watson had stored in his pocket.

"What are we here for exactly?" he asked sharply, anger at being left in the dark slowly rising.

Sherlock hesitated, eyes meeting that of Dr Watson. "Nothing much, I assure you, just a lead, which might prove resourceful. Now, if you would just follow me then –"

"No," Lestrade finally snapped. He might not match Sherlock's intellect, but he was no fool and 'nothing much' certainly didn't require a firearm. "We are not doing this any longer, Sherlock. I demand to be told why I am here and what it is you have been busying yourself with for the past weeks."

"Please, Lestrade, do not embarrass yourself." He reached for the handle, but Lestrade grabbed his wrist before he could take hold of it.

"I may not be as brilliant as you, but I am not blind. Something is worrying you and I would appreciate to know the stakes before I enter the lion's den!"

Watson stared at him with rapped fascination, surprised by the Inspector's outburst. It caused a pang of satisfaction to surge through Lestrade's veins.

"Fine." Sherlock yanked his hand free and brushed down his sleeve, as if Lestrade had dirtied it with his touch. "I have reliable information that an organised crime ring is planning a widespread attack on the overall public. There are a handful of footmen which I have been able to put names on, one of which I believe is employed here. However, discretion is key, which is why you will question him under the pretence of an ongoing investigation, while I add a few relevant questions of my own. Satisfied?"

Lestrade held firm. "Who, exactly, is this man?"

Sherlock sighed. "James Harrison is a known individual in scientific and political circles, currently teaching organic chemistry at King's College London. Whether he has full knowledge of what his second, rather dubious employment entails, I do not know."

Lestrade nodded, not particularly reassured but satisfied for the time being. "And what do you wish me to do?"

"Spin a tale, anything will do really. Make him nervous and I will take care of the rest."

The walk up to the building was silent, air thick with anticipation and Lestrade found himself holding his breathe as he knocked twice on the heavy wooden door.

Harrison was a short, but slender man, with nearly black hair of fashionable length. It was carefully slicked back, adding a few years to his surprisingly young appearance. Lestrade had trouble aligning this man with the clichéd professor figure years of related cases and no time spent on higher education had installed in his mind. But his small, sharp eyes betrayed the intellect, which no doubt resided behind.

"Prof Harrison – "

"Just Mister, I am afraid." He smiled, teeth white and disturbingly straight. "Apparently, there is only so much room for Professors at this university."

"Mr Harrison, I am Inspector Lestrade with Scotland Yard. We are investigating a case which your class might be involved in." He pointed at the two men beside him. "Those are – " Sherlock threw him an alarmed look " – two of my constables."

Harrison measured him for a moment, eyes staring uncomfortably into his own, then stepped aside to admit them entrance. "Of course. Please, make yourselves comfortable."

They walked along a thickly carpeted corridor into what appeared to be a sitting room. A fireplace and two matching armchairs occupied one side and a round table with a couple of chairs the other. Harrison motioned them to the former and encouraged Lestrade to take a seat. The cushion was soft and he sank in deep, knees uncomfortably higher than his hips. There was the sound of scraping chairs to his right as Sherlock and Watson acquired seats of their own. But Harrison remained standing, one shoulder leaning casually against the mantle frame.

"Mr Harrison, we have reason to believe that a student of this facility has planned and executed a chemical attack against another. Luckily, he failed, but the attempt has none the less been made and needs to be punished. Did you notice any suspicious behaviour over the course of the last ten days, especially on November 5th?" Lestrade asked. "A quarrel, perhaps, anything which might have foreshadowed aggressive behaviour?"

"You have not had much contact with the educational elite, have you, Inspector? There are much simpler means to enact revenge upon another." his tone was carefully neutral, bored almost, but a hint of malice nonetheless emitted from his being. It reminded him bizarrely of Sherlock.

Before Lestrade could respond, Sherlock interjected from behind. "Why would you say that?"

Despite this, Mr Harrison's eyes remained firmly trained on Lestrade. "The classrooms are filled with the rich and the famous. Feuds are like chess; they pass the time."

"And you are well accustomed to this game?" Lestrade inquired carefully. Harrison's smile reminded him of a fox. The light from the fireplace threw deep shadows onto his face only accentuating that impression. Behind him, Lestrade could hear Sherlock fidgeting, impatient to bring forth questions of his own.

"I admit I do find it fascinating. The offspring of some of the most influential people of this country pass me by in the corridors. But in the classroom, reduced to only their intellect, they learn fast that wit can be even more powerful than money. It is the simplicity which awakens my academic side, not the result it yields."

"I believe I do not quite follow." Lestrade itched to turn around and seek out Sherlock's expression, but held himself back.

"A few clever lies, a sharp word here or there can go a long way to ruin. Falling from grace is much like a house of cards. One wavers, the next follows and before you fully realise it, everything is tumbling down. No wealth can help you then. As I said, much more effective."

"Speaking of wealth," Sherlock chipped in. "You are not a Professor, yet teach just as many hours. Does that bother you?"

"Hardly." Harrison shook his head, amused. "And to answer your question, Inspector: No, I am afraid I cannot direct your attention to any particular conspicuous incident." His gaze turned back to Lestrade, just as piercing and all seeing as that of the Holmes'. There was something sinister there, though, something dark Lestrade couldn't quite name. It sent small shivers down his back. Sherlock, unmoved, kept on.

"Do you collect paintings, Mr Harrison?"

"Why would I spend my time on such a dreary activity?" The amusement hadn't abated. "They do so often portray that which has passed, while I prefer to look at what is still to come."

"Then you have no speakable knowledge of art, nor interest in its restoration?"

"No, I'm afraid I must disappoint."

"Very well, then." Sherlock muttered behind him.

Lestrade took that as his cue. "That will be all, Mr Harrison. Thank you for your cooperation."

Sherlock, with his mind no doubt already three tasks ahead, promptly disappeared into the front hall, Watson close on his heels. Lestrade heaved himself out of the armchair and turned to follow, but before he could reach the door, Harrison's spoke again.

"Everything is built on trust, Inspector Lestrade." He was still leaning against the mantlepiece, gaze fixed on the fire flickering beneath. "You can be the most powerful person in existence, but your power is not worth a thing if no one recognises it. That is the problem with influence. If everyone decides you do not have it anymore, then you do not. It is as simple as that."

His eyes met Lestrade's, a smile playing around his lips. "I do believe you will be able to find your way out on your own."

The way back through the halls and down the stairs passed by in a blur as Lestrade tried to catch up with his companions, his skin prickling with unease. A light drizzle had started while they'd been inside, but the moon hang low in the sky, untouched by the clouds.

"Sherlock," Lestrade called out to the duo, which had already flagged down a cab. He caught up to them just in time. The horses were already stomping impatiently, strong muscles steadily flexing beneath the dark skin.

Sherlock whirled around and then said, "Did he seem surprised to you, when I asked him about painting?"

Lestrade blinked, confused. "No, not particularly."

"No, he didn't." Sherlock confirmed. He turned back to the carriage, ready to join Watson who'd already taken a seat.

"Wait!" Lestrade caught his sleeve. "Sherlock, I need answers."

"And you will get them," Sherlock assured him. "But I require time to think first, to fit everything together. Trust me."

And he did, Lestrade noted with a hint of surprise. Despite everything that had happened, all the small betrayals and secrets and lies. Despite the frequency with which his benevolence had been exploited, Lestrade trusted.

~oOo~

 _8 years ago_

The days following Mycroft's sudden appearance at his flat were blurred. Caught in a swirl of conflicted emotion, Greg had thought of little else but what had occurred that night. Mycroft's panicked voice, their embrace, and the heat of Mycroft's bare skin under his fingers. The ghost of Mycroft's breath on his lips haunted him into his dreams, both pleasant and frightening, robbing him of what little rest he was able to catch. Greg couldn't decide what was more excruciating, the unanswered questions running non-stop through his mind or the longing in his heart. Where he had felt alone before, he had now become painfully aware of his loneliness.

Greg realised he wanted, deeply and whole-heartedly. And he hadn't wanted anything for so very long.

But however much he'd wished to see Mycroft again, he had not expected him to show up at his office at five in the evening on a busy Friday, clothed in a fine suit and a dark coat. After over a week devoid of any contact, any communication whatsoever, now here he stood. His polished shoes were just as out of place on the cruddy floor as the man himself in the shabby office.

"Mycroft…" Greg breathed, relief leaving him light-headed. They stared at each other for a few seconds, neither quite knowing what to say. It was the helplessness in Mycroft's eyes, so equal his own, that spurred Greg into speech. "I am glad you are here."

"I apologise for my prolonged absence." His tone was formal, but warm. The uncommon location of their meeting seemed to throw him off just as much as Greg. He let the door fall closed behind him, but didn't approach, unsure where to start.

Lestrade, out of habit, stood up, then remained standing awkwardly beside his desk. Suddenly, he wasn't quite as sure anymore. There was always room for misinterpretation and in this case, it could cost him dearly. Mycroft had not shown any outright interest before their last encounter, but something had clearly formed between them. An understanding, a mutual respect for the other. Something more honest and pure than Greg had felt in a very long time and the thought that he might lose it was unbearable. But to deepen those feelings and explore them further was everything his heart longed for.

"It is quite alright," he assured him. "I understand you needed space to think."

"Yes, yes…" Mycroft nodded absently, then hesitantly took a step forward.

Greg swallowed and fought back the urge to touch him. He dug his fingers into the edge of his desk instead. Fear wound its way around his heart. "I had not expected you to come here, of all places…"

Mycroft visibly braced himself, shoulders drawn back and posture straight. "The occurrences of our last encounter have opened my eyes to conditions and circumstances which I had not considered before. I realised that the boundaries of our association have become blurred and I would like to rectify that."

It was too formal, too final. "Of course," Greg closed his eyes, coldness gripping his body. He feared he might drown in it. Of course it couldn't be, he must have misjudged. There was no possibly way Mycroft could value him as more than a friend.

Then, warm lips pressed upon his, and every fear evaporated in a swirl of light. Greg's attention focused on Mycroft's lips against his. They were warm and soft and full of promise. Happiness bubbled up inside him, filling his chest to the brim. He feared it might spill over and empty his heart upon the floor, his emotions laid bare for all to see. It didn't frighten him as much as it should.

The distinct click of the door handle being pushed down violently ended the peaceful moment. Mycroft recoiled abruptly, nearly throwing Greg off his feet in his attempt to put distance between them. Greg's heart, which had been in the clouds seconds before, plummeted to his feet. Horrified, Greg stared at his superior standing in the doorway, while his heartbeat pounded in his ears. But whatever Greg had feared he might say, nothing could have prepared him for reality.

"Oh Mr Holmes, Sir, my apologies. I was not informed of your arrival. Please, if your lordship would excuse our error and let me personally escort you to my office." He looked around Lestrade's small, cluttered office with distain, as if it was a personal, unforgiving offence to Mr Holmes. Somewhere, something shattered in Greg's body.

"Mr Holmes?" His voice sounded distant, as if it belonged to someone else standing before the door and not staring into the cold, emotionless eyes beside him.

"Yes, of course. You've been consulting with his brother, I believe. Sherlock Holmes." The chief looked at him expectantly, waiting for the penny to drop. The look of recognition, and the gasp of surprise. Waited for him to bow his head and ask for forgiveness for his lack of manners.

But Greg's brain had come to a skittering halt, unable to process anything but the image of the man he'd come to call a friend, a companion. A lover. A person he held dear above all others. Mycroft's – no, Mr Holmes' – posture was rigid and cool, an expression of aloof boredom on his hard features as he turned to the chief. It struck Greg then, that he'd seen that exact same expression before. The nose was the same, as were the crystal-clear eyes, but Lord George Holmes's face had been lined with age his grandson had yet to reach.

"Yes," Mr Holmes tilted his head in agreement, hands clasped behind his back. "Inspector Lestrade has played a vital role in providing my brother with a distraction and a purpose to his life."

And in the blink of an eye, everything changed. It was much like awakening from a dream; a subtle shift of reality – like the raising of a veil – and suddenly the world so sharp and clear, you wonder how you could've ever believed it to be anything else.

"I was not – " The words caught in his throat. "I am afraid I must take my leave." He nodded to the chief. " Apologies, Sir." Then turned to Mr Holmes and bowed slightly without meeting the man's eyes. "Sir."

He fled from the building, blind to his surroundings, as the world collapsed around him. _You fool,_ he chastised himself, _you naïve imbecile._ And the more he repeated those words, the more they sounded like Lord George Holmes. And by the time he'd reached his flat, grandfather and grandson had merged to one.


End file.
